There can surely be no worse time to commence a training plan for your first ever marathon than early January. In Scotland. Today is a case in point. It’s the second day back at work after the holidays and there’re plenty of things to do but you just cannot be arsed. It’s blowing a gale and pissing down outside so any thoughts of a quick lunchtime leg-stretch melt like the cheese in your baked potato and very quickly disappear. By the time you get home in the evening it’s pitch black outside, it’s still windy and rainy, your SAD light is broken, a couple of ‘units’ of “Friends” are just about to start on E4, you make yourself a nice wee cup of tea and before you know it, you’re snoring on the couch and drooling all over your Burnt Sienna throw-cushions from Ikea.
My training plan says I should be doing “40 minutes steady” today (what, no fartlek?) but there’s no way I'm venturing outside to get soaked. I’ve been thinking a lot about what the doctor said last week and it does make sense to find other ways to get fit without my feet taking all the punishment. So at the risk of causing (yet another) great disturbance in The Force, I get in the car, drive to the other side of town, track down the local “leisure” centre and I.. I.. I.. *gulp*.. I.. join a gym.
The reception area is busy and noisy and as I fill out forms in a daze and then hand over credit cards, the feeling is, I imagine, akin to turning over your personal effects as you begin a ten-year stretch as punishment for a lifetime of petty smoking and opportunist snacking.
Anyway, I have to go back on Thursday for something called the “gym induction”. I’m thinking of getting the entire blueprints of the place tattooed on my back because if I hear the merest snap of rubber gloves being put on, or the steady trundle of water hoses being unraveled, it’ll be time to start digging a tunnel.
My training plan says I should be doing “40 minutes steady” today (what, no fartlek?) but there’s no way I'm venturing outside to get soaked. I’ve been thinking a lot about what the doctor said last week and it does make sense to find other ways to get fit without my feet taking all the punishment. So at the risk of causing (yet another) great disturbance in The Force, I get in the car, drive to the other side of town, track down the local “leisure” centre and I.. I.. I.. *gulp*.. I.. join a gym.
The reception area is busy and noisy and as I fill out forms in a daze and then hand over credit cards, the feeling is, I imagine, akin to turning over your personal effects as you begin a ten-year stretch as punishment for a lifetime of petty smoking and opportunist snacking.
Anyway, I have to go back on Thursday for something called the “gym induction”. I’m thinking of getting the entire blueprints of the place tattooed on my back because if I hear the merest snap of rubber gloves being put on, or the steady trundle of water hoses being unraveled, it’ll be time to start digging a tunnel.
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