Tail outstretched, balancing the rest of the body. Shoulder muscles contracting, ready to hit the ground. Hind legs extended like rubber bands.
Chaos is imminent. Eyes on the prize. The leopard is ready. 3.5-billion years of evolution have turned it into a biological weapon.
It’s been three days without a meal. Time to hunt.
No three-page menu for the leopard. A warthog trots through the grass.
Too slow and it’ll be another day without a meal. There’s no such thing as too fast.
Snout covered in dirt, the warthog peers around, it too is hungry.
The leopard crouches below the reeds, hidden by its spots and surrounds. A warthog is easy prey for a leopard but a master enjoys the process as much as the goal. Patience is another one of the leopard’s strengths.
Blood trickles out from holes in the warthog’s neck, snapped with one bite. This hunt was easy.
The leopard is a master of movement. Movement is life. If a leopard doesn’t move, it dies.
We are masters of movement too. But we’ve forgotten. We’ve forgotten how to move.
Instead, we call any form of movement, exercising. And now whenever people hear the word exercise, they’re struck with the same fear as the warthog noticing the leopard leap over the grass.
Exercising is difficult because we treat it as something we’re not meant to be doing.
It’s the opposite. Our bodies are designed to move. The packs of muscle in our backs and legs make us cranes. We’re meant to pick heavy things up. And crawl around in the low grass, careful not to disturb dinner.
If we couldn’t move, we’d have nothing.
A leopard doesn’t think about movement as exercise. It just moves.
Unleash your inner leopard.