Yesterday I did my first proper running, a stop-start affair during my lunch break which in no way made up for the sessions I should have done earlier in the week. This evening, I was meeting qualified fitness instructor Leann for a 7:00pm appointment (it would be a stretch to call it “a date”) so I decided that because the weather was decent, I would run the 2.6 miles to the gym. And I did, more or less, with two or three walking breaks.
Leann is considerate enough (or well trained enough) to keep a straight face when I tell her what I’m working towards and doesn’t flinch an inch when I step on to the scales for the weigh-in, other than to point out politely that I shouldn’t really keep one foot on the floor. Next she takes my blood pressure which is borderline “treadmill safe” and then she takes it again to see if it was an anomaly. It wasn’t, but she decides I’m okay to proceed.
We talk about the type of training I need and the core strength I desperately need to build up and she recommends a circuit of different exercises which build into an hour-long programme. She then uploads the entire programme from her computer into a magic key which I assume will open a secret door to Narnia where training is effortless and unicorns run free by my side, encouraging me as I go and handing me bottles of Lucozade Sport whenever I need them.
Alas no, the magic key fits into a myriad of Dalek-looking equipment, negating the need for me to ever push any ‘start’ buttons or adjust any speeds, which is just as well because if you’ve ever seen Bill Murray in ‘Lost in Translation’ killing time on an elliptical trainer in a Japanese hotel (sorry, I couldn’t find it on the YouTube), you’ll have some idea of what happened to me this evening when I stepped on to this cross training death trap for the first time in my life. Stupid fake cross-country skiing machine.
But pleasingly, all the fitness equipment have little televisions installed, as well as churning out stats and charts on their screens recording everything from my heart rate and calorie burn to a ‘hotness in lycra’ rating. I happened to be wearing my saggy-assed, cotton jogging pants so only a “This Hotness Cannot Be Found 404 Error” message was displayed. Stupid Dalek machine.
All in all, the evening was quite enjoyable and I was a little out of breath having had more opportunities than I expected to try out all the equipment. As I walked back out to the car park, I started to look forward to my first proper session and the long term benefits it would bring. Which was when I remembered that I hadn’t brought the f#cking car. Cue the thirty minute run, walk, run, walk, run, walk, crawl journey home.
Leann is considerate enough (or well trained enough) to keep a straight face when I tell her what I’m working towards and doesn’t flinch an inch when I step on to the scales for the weigh-in, other than to point out politely that I shouldn’t really keep one foot on the floor. Next she takes my blood pressure which is borderline “treadmill safe” and then she takes it again to see if it was an anomaly. It wasn’t, but she decides I’m okay to proceed.
We talk about the type of training I need and the core strength I desperately need to build up and she recommends a circuit of different exercises which build into an hour-long programme. She then uploads the entire programme from her computer into a magic key which I assume will open a secret door to Narnia where training is effortless and unicorns run free by my side, encouraging me as I go and handing me bottles of Lucozade Sport whenever I need them.
Alas no, the magic key fits into a myriad of Dalek-looking equipment, negating the need for me to ever push any ‘start’ buttons or adjust any speeds, which is just as well because if you’ve ever seen Bill Murray in ‘Lost in Translation’ killing time on an elliptical trainer in a Japanese hotel (sorry, I couldn’t find it on the YouTube), you’ll have some idea of what happened to me this evening when I stepped on to this cross training death trap for the first time in my life. Stupid fake cross-country skiing machine.But pleasingly, all the fitness equipment have little televisions installed, as well as churning out stats and charts on their screens recording everything from my heart rate and calorie burn to a ‘hotness in lycra’ rating. I happened to be wearing my saggy-assed, cotton jogging pants so only a “This Hotness Cannot Be Found 404 Error” message was displayed. Stupid Dalek machine.
All in all, the evening was quite enjoyable and I was a little out of breath having had more opportunities than I expected to try out all the equipment. As I walked back out to the car park, I started to look forward to my first proper session and the long term benefits it would bring. Which was when I remembered that I hadn’t brought the f#cking car. Cue the thirty minute run, walk, run, walk, run, walk, crawl journey home.
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