Trying to be fit

I joined a gym. Those who know me of old might be somewhat surprised at this. At school I managed to skive off PT/PE for most of my secondary years by dint of taking Art which involved prolonged trips to Newhaven Harbour to do sketches of boats (and to hide behind the lighthouse smoking and drinking alcoholic things). This was a lot more fun than running round a cold playing field dressed in a divided skirt which showed off one's fat white knees when one was at just that age when one wanted to be admired by the opposite sex, rather than mocked by them. Interestingly enough they were far more inclined to admire someone who spent whole afternoons holed up behind the lighthouse, smoking and peacefully watching the tankers steaming up the Forth to Grangemouth.

It's not that I don't do exercise. I love taking the dogs for walks, and enjoy cycling, so long as the weather's in my favour. Swimming is a great pleasure, so long as it's out of doors in the sea or a nice cold lake, and I can dress in shorts and a t-shirt rather than a stupid swimsuit which does nothing for those with a larger waistline than they'd like.

So, what seems to happen is that in the summer, when it's warm and dry and good weather for cycling and lake swimming, I get sort of fittish, and lose a bit of weight, and feel generally pleased with myself. And then the winter comes, and it gets dark early, and it's cold, and it rains, and I'm too much of a wimp to go cycling in this stuff, and of course swimming in Bass Lake in midwinter would put me on a fast track to the West Cumberland Infirmary, so the only exercise I get is walking the dogs, and even that's not a lot of fun in the dark when you're halfway down the lane and meet strange scary people who shine torches in your face, putting the wind up the dogs and me.

Eight years ago I gave up smoking. Not because I didn't like smoking, 'cause I did. I really enjoyed it. But I knew I'd live longer if I quit, and somehow I managed it (this is another story which I might tell some time) and now feel there's a very good chance of living longer. However, round people tend to live shorter lives than lean people, and my biggest ambition is to live as long as possible, so the next unpleasant thing I have to do is to take more, regular exercise, and start now while I'm still young and fit enough to do it.

People who have had heart attacks and other life-threatening illnesses are sent to the gym to work out and recover, and some of them recover so well that they run marathons and all sorts of things. If they can do all that, surely someone like me who is perfectly healthy and whose only problem is not particularly enjoying repetitive exercise, can do it too! So I signed up at the gym.

I don't expect to enjoy it. But you pay a month in advance, and being a Scot I have to get my money's worth once I've paid for it.

So far it's been working out quite well. The place is full of machinery that looks like the contents of a torture chamber. There's a treadmill (the very name conjures up images of doing boring repetitive work, doesn't it?), an upright bike (i.e., a bike that goes nowhere), a recumbant bike (ah, cycling in a comfy chair!), and a couple of other bizarre things: one that feels like plodding through thick snow and one where you work your arms and legs together in a completely unnatural fashion and whose name I've completely forgotten. Oh yes, and a rowing machine, but I can't use that because I've got a wonky knee and the last time I tried one I was crippled for a week.

Having used this lot for a few days I was 'inducted' into the weights room, which is filled with even more extraordinary machinery. (Who invents these things? They're amazingly clever, once you realise they're not designed to remove your legs and arms, one at a time, in slow motion.) Funnily enough I almost enjoy this room. Each time I go I find I can move a greater weight, and I seem to have incredibly powerful thighs. Maybe I should have been one of those stocky Eastern European female weight-lifters or shot putters. I'll move on to the free weights in due course, which is good, as I've inherited a set of them, complete with bench, from a friend who was moving house, and I'm scared to try them until I've been shown the right way.

So . . . everything was going just speldidly, and then I managed to hurt my back. Nothing to do with the gym workouts, just the bit that tends to 'go' from time to time - I seem to have a bit of a weakness there. So frustrating. I'll need to leave it at least a week before I can get back to the weights, and I'll probably find I'm back where I started again. Buggabuggabugga . . .