DAYS FIVE, SIX & SEVEN: Naan the better

The weekend came and went.

Nothing outrageous, but certainly not as healthy or as active as it might have been.

Friday was spent largely in silence, drinking cups of tea, two bacon rolls in the morning my sole sustenance until a dinner of roasted chicken and veg.

There was no gym as had been planned, not even an attempt to try and reduce my guilt with a swim.

Saturday involved a day of toast and banana for breakfast and no lunch as penance for the previous week’s exploits.

Of course that too was offset by going out for a curry with my wife, although I did go for the healthy garlic masala option and boiled rice.

Don’t suppose the two pints of Cobra will have helped though.

Although I did at last come clean to my wife about joining the gym.

Did she laugh?

No. A smile and gentle words of encouragement.

At that, I passed the naan bread…..

Sunday morning came, boiled egg on toast went, and then followed an afternoon of hard labour.

Yes, four hours cutting, digging, pruning in the unexpected served as some kind of work-out.

There was even beads of sweat on my fevered brow.

Perhaps there was hope yet.

Perhaps tomorrow would be better.

Wouldn’t it?

DAY FOUR: Eyes on the Prize

Thursday was never going to work, was it?

A morning meeting an hour away did at least mean time to wolf down a decent breakfast of mushroom omelette on brown toast washed down with detoxifying peppermint tea.

But a series of business meetings throughout the day meant there was no chance of making it to the gym in office hours.

Lunch consisted of a chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle to sustain me, drawing a screwed up face from the office manager who fails to understand why anyone would put such a thing near their body.

Because the healthy beef wrap, yoghurt and fruit packed by my wife had another purpose. It would be by Midnight feast that night.

Oh yes. 

Because having decided this was a good week to join the gym I had overlooked the fact that I had an awards bash to attend at a local hotel.

And just to taunt my whale-like frame, the same hotel housing my new gym.

Yes, you can just taste the irony, can’t you.

However I viewed this as an opportunity and booked a room, a very nice one it was too.

My theory being that if I was at least in the hotel I could sneak either a quick session before the bash or at the very least, an early morning stint the next day.

My schedule being what it was, there was no chance of an earl evening work out.

Instead I managed to, just, shovel myself into my kilt and other Highland dress wear before repairing the the nearest bar to catch up with some former colleagues.

I admit, I had a pint, but refused five others in the 45-minutes we were there.

At my host’s table, I spent the first 90-minutes nursing glasses of spring water as they drained bottle after bottle of red and white wine.

My resolve was strong.

Yet as the speeches droned on, I reckoned the one glass of Pinot Noir wouldn’t go ary.

Of course as soon as the red liquid reduced in the sparkling glass, it was topped up by our ever generous host. 

And so followed another, and another.

Even still I was fending off the urge to dive into the free beer on offer.

I turned down the starter dish to compensate for the wine, enjoyed the main of chicken and vegetables, before being faced with dessert.

Tiramisu. A slab of it too.

Now I really like Tiramisu. But I knew it would be fatal to the night.

Clearly it had been freshly made, you can tell by the way the cream softens, the coffee drips.

And all around the table came cries of “Mmmmmmmmmoooh” and “Oh God, that’s lovely” from my fellow guests, clearly unaware of my pledge to better myself.

Then it happened. The words of doom. “Oh, you really must try it….”

My brain computed that it would be rude not to and a super-sized spoonful or two later, it was gone.

And so too any hope that my body would survive anything like a sustained calorie attack.

More wine, you bet. 

But not, of course, without at least one moment of ritual humiliation just to make sure I knew that karma really was watching.

A long lost colleague greeting me with the cry ‘Oh my God, it is you. I didn’t recognise you there. What happened, you’ve become a porker‘.

The only saving grace being that I am on a health regime, and as a result of her rather candid comments, will do all I can to make good the extra four stone I’m wearing since we last met.

But I’m afraid she will remain an ugly forever, a relic that not even sandblasting could cure.

It was then, of course, that I dived into the free beer ahead of a 4am finish.

Suffice to say, it probably knocked any last, lingering hope of doing good for my body this week.

But if nothing else, it did at least offer a little  crumb of comfort the soul. 

And a renewed determination that next week would be better.

DAY THREE: The morning after the night before

Funnily enough I didn’t feel much like breakfast this morning. Nor lunch, liquid or movement. In fact I would quite happily have stayed in the comforting warmth and quiet of the shower all day.

It wasn’t a hangover, as such. Just tiredness and a gnawing disappointment that I hadn’t been able to last two days, let along a year in this pursuit of happiness.

But it had been useful, not to mention fun. 

So instead of wallowing like a hippo of despair, I decided the only way was to get back on the road and head to the gym for a lung busting first solo session.

Of course an hour on the train as the previous night’s alcohol seeped from my pores put paid to the notion that I would be going anywhere fast, let alone the gym.

Lunchtime came and went as I slunk behind my computer in the corner, doing all those menial tasks I’d been putting off for months, my kit back in the corner alone and unused.

Around 3pm I decided maybe a swim would help, at least salve the conscience a little.

Then a phone call or two later and the resolve was gone. I just wanted to head home, watch some brain numbing show on TV and sloped off to bed.

On the way to the station my business partner tried to boost my morale, show his loyal support for my new health regime, by suggesting we go for a pint at the pub next door.

But I refused. I stayed firm and put. No, no, no – I could really say it – no.

He pressed on ahead, ordering a beer of choice.

I shuffled away, onto the train that would take me home, knowing that even one small victory against temptation was better than none.

And that maybe, just maybe, there is hope for me after all.

 

DAY TWO: Drink or Swim

And it had all started so well. Fresh out my morning shower I emerged to discover my wife had made me banana on toast in a show of moral support after I confessed to my healthy eating plan. 

The gym remains a secret, you see, until I can at least prove to myself that I can maintain the momentum in actually going as well as some actual results. 

Only then will I feel confident enough to reveal all without fearing the raised eyebrow and the inevitable ‘oh yes, how long do you think you will last this time?’ Not that I blame her given my past record, and not that she’d mock or be cruel. 

Just resigned to the fact that hubby, ie me, is a serial great plan maker who doesn’t always deliver. So it was touching to see the banana not hastily spread across the seeded batch, but sliced delicately to be savoured along with the cup of tea that accompanied it. 

My rucksack I’d packed the previous night, the still gleaming white trainers belying their four year age, an oversized t-shirt ready for the fray. 

I even made the train in plenty time, bounded up to the office to check some emails before heading to LA Fitness just around the corner from work. 

When it all started to unravel. First there was some work to be done, urgent because a deadline was fast looming. No stress to be worked off, just time consuming. 

Ah, time, the enemy that would deny my body the regime it needs. Because as the clock tocked and ticked I knew that if I were to dilly dally just a little more, then I’d have to give it a miss until the afternoon. I knew that I had to take a train to see a guy 45 minutes away for a business meeting. 

Which is kind of where it all went wrong. Of course I could have had a coffee, water or peppermint tea. But it was a Starbucks and I just HAD to have a Chai tea latte – venti too. And spare me the skinny option, this is a drink that has to be savoured. 

Especially when accompanied by a blueberry muffin. I know, I know, the guilt started to riddle through me from the first slurp, and because I felt bad I ordered a second. When my client suggested a quick lunchtime pint I did resist twice, but caved at the third request. 

It was clear he had more to say, and out it came over a pint of McEwan’s 70. I did extract myself from his company after that one pint, though, fleeing to meet some other chums. 

Safety in numbers. Except it was in a bar. They like a drink. And being a quiet Tuesday that’s exactly what happened. My second pint of the day lead to a third, but fearing for my gut I refused the fourth John Smith’s, settling instead for a smaller bottle of Peroni lager. 

Of course five bottles later and it was time to attend the launch of a political think tank down the road. A launch party, if you will, with free wine – decent stuff too as five glasses of testing was to prove. 

Food had been absent all day, at least since the banana on toast, so half a dozen of the tiniest crumb coated deep fried haggis bites were deemed necessary. 

And then the guilt returned. I trudged away from the event, shame faced at my weakness and headed for the train. 

A two hour journey home to mull over why I’d given into temptation so easily. After all, it would have been easy to have stopped earlier. It would have been easy to stick to water. 

But in good company, sharing rare banter and meeting new, useful business contacts, possibly lucrative ones too, then it is even easier to go with the flow an excuse of sorts, but not one that will do the scales of injustice much good when I next heave my hulking torso upon them. 

Which was why on the final part of my journey home I dipped into my coat pocket and pulled out an apple I’d tucked there in the morning as a snack and devoured it.  Every little helps, as they say. 

And boy do I need all the help I can get.

 

DAY ONE: Gym ‘ll Fix It?

Well it had to start somewhere.

Up at 6am for the 7am train. Missed it. Predictably just as the doors were slamming shut before my sleep deprived eyes.

No worries, chance for a Chai Latte and bacon roll, or two. Except that this is supposed to be the first day of the rest of my life. Again.

The whole reason I chewed on banana mushed over fresh brown toast and low fat spread, gulped down a couple pints of water and walked to the station.

Actually, that’s a lie. I didn’t walk.

I was supposed to walk but couldn’t be arsed, so took the car, struggled to find a parking space hence why I missed the train.

So having failed with the willpower once already today, it would have been shameless to give in to the temptations of the snack bar.

Instead I bought the papers – including the Daily Telegraph on account it was giving away a 75cl bottle of Vittel which I was sure would be badly needed in the hours to come.

For today, ladies and gentlemen, was my first day attending my new gym.

The paperwork was completed last week, my £70 paid for the, ahem, admin fee and first month upfront, so all that awaited was the specially tailored fitness programme.

Of course being Monday, it would be today that the signaling problems would kick in as we approached the train station making me late for the 9am appointment.

And 9am.

What the Hell was I thinking off?

My body had already awakened with all sorts of aches and pains across each and every joint and a mystery cold had appeared overnight. Surely the delay was just another sign at the futility of it all, wasn’t it?

Of course the four minutes it held us back, like the flu that was really only in my head, wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference to what was to come.

There was no excuse. I’d taken the pledge. And the first step is admitting you have a problem. So for the record, my name is Fat Bastard. I am a Lazy-oholic.

And this is my story.  

Stumbling out the station, I looked almost cool with my retro kit bag. Only it was an original just plucked from the depths of a cupboard upstairs and dusted down.

If I last a month I may invest in a new one, until then…

Now this particular gym is a branch of LA Fitness adjoined to a five-star hotel, where the beautiful people hang, so I was fearful of what I’d find.

As luck would have it the place was almost deserted other than a couple of slim as you like women and an old guy who looked in worse nick than me, until I noticed that he’d been on the treadmill for 30-minutes and barely broken sweat.

Grrrr.

My instructor for the day was Ross. You know the type, right weight, all in proportion, not a shiny, healthy hair out of place looking like he could step onto the set of Home & Away or Baywatch without anyone batting an eyelid.

Again, Grrrr.

You could see it in his eyes though as he read my file, sizing me up, trying to figure out which would come first – me stopping my visits or a coronary.

Maybe both.

Thankfully no lecture mind, just passing comment about fruit being good for you bacon rolls being the polar opposite. But we both knew what he meant – ‘Hey fat boy, do what I say or you will die’ – no doubt sensing the growing trepidation growing in my gut.

He was a lot more welcoming and helpful in reality, asking a series of questions.

‘What do you hope to achieve by coming here?’

Er, not dying would be good.

‘Okay’

Fitting into my suit trousers without needing to shoehorn my fat ass into them might be nice.

‘Alright’

And to do all this while not changing what I eat, drink, do or otherwise want.

‘That might be a tiny problem’.

And so then, off to meet the machines of which I will soon name, just to help me remember what they are.

The rowing machine, for instance, I have already Christened Lucifer on account that it surely must belong top the big fire pit in the basement. (Thought – is it possible to Christen, Lucifer?)

Bikes have now been dubbed ‘The Wheels of Death’ while the funny arm spinning machine thingy that I’ve forgotten the name of shall now forever be known as he funny arm spinning machine thingy that I’ve forgotten the name of.

There are others of which I spent a maximum of 10 minutes on to try out.

It may as well have been 10 hours as I manfully tried not to wheeze, pant, sweat or engage in any type of conversation or eye-contact for fear of giving the game away.

As I staggered, no, bounced between machines and carried out my stretches (12 seconds per leg, per action) I again asked the question – ‘What the Hell am I doing?’

There seemed no rational explanation.

Yet as my tutor proudly showed me where my checklist would be kept and I told me I was now free to spread my wings, I felt a juddering sense of accomplishment.

After four years of inaction I’d taken the first steps to a better me, a better way of life and for a moment it felt good.

No, it felt great.

A brief shower and look at the swimming pool and I was off. I went to bound up the stairs leading to the exit two at a time, but couldn’t.

My legs. They were leaden.

And, despite an hour in the facility, when I looked down I still couldn’t see my feet.

Worse, I could barely move them.

I hauled my unsteady frame up towards daylight from the basement of doom, head spinning.

And standing there at the exit, panting away, I too, like my instructor Ross, wondered just how long I’d last on the journey ahead….