The Mean Mile

I've just returned from my first 'training' trip to the gym and from the looks of me you'd think I'd run the London Marathon. I'm still wearing my jogging bottoms, red faced, sweating and I think my heart rate has only just returned to normal. In a word I'm shattered, un-fit. That's not to say I was surprised at just how little it took to make me feel like I'd just passed a quiet hour with the Spanish Inquisition but it is a little dissapointing that at 22 I was (quite literally) out-jogged by a skinny pensioner not even half my size on the adjacent treadmill.

So what was it that pushed me to the point of collapse? What gargantuan feat of cardiovascular excess made me feel more exhausted than I have in years? I'd like to lie and tell you I ran 10km in under 30 minutes and then jogged to the rowing machine to row the final 10km but I can't. The truth is that after 15 minutes running at 9km/hr I managed to find enough strength for a meagre 10 mimutes on the exercise bike before retiring to the changing room with multiple stitches, a dry mouth and inexplicable pains in my chest.

But what did I expect after a year of takeaways, TV and upwards of 40 pints a week? I've hardly been living the health fanatics dream and this, as I have written previously, is the year of change, so where better to start than absolute zero? And who knows, at the end of the whole ordeal (because that is certainly what it is) I might be body beautiful as well as being able to hand over a rather large cheque to charity.

For now I'm going to relax enough for my face to return to it's normal colour, drink a glass of water and write down what exactly I managed today so that tomorrow I can try and beat it, even if it's only by an extra minute. My one pair of tracksuit bottoms can be thrown in the wash ready for tomorrow and I can spend the rest of the day smug in the knowledge that I have started the new regime.

Fran's also joining a local gym soon. I'm quietly wondering whether I can work a competition of some sort into that one. Let's hope she fairs better than me anyway! More soon.

Ben