Training at the Leash

It’s not my fault. Not entirely.

I’ve genuinely wanted to get to the gym. Even once since my last post would have been good.

It just hasn’t happened.

The first week I was under siege at work.

No matter how hard I shoveled through the paperwork, the writing and the meetings, the window of opportunity each day just slipped by.

This week should, and in truth, could have been different.

But yes, it was bust.

Of course, I didn’t actually have to go for that pub lunch on Tuesday, tempted by the pie and chips on offer.

And on Thursday I had a perfectly good salad to devour.

So why then did I end up having Thai Green curry, albeit with boiled rice.

Guilty?

I suppose so. 

I don’t feel any fitter. But for that matter, I don’t feel any fatter either.

In fact, a stone and a half has disappeared from my frame since January.

So now I’m more Orc than Orca.

The half time pies at football have gone, so too most of the beer, fine wine now the alcohol of choice.

And taking mutley out for a walk has become an enjoyable past-time, which is training, of sorts.

But it is beating a path to the gym that has to be sorted.

Encouragement of sorts, however.

One colleague claims to have joined, another is heading for a trial next week.

It could be they shame me into going.

Whether they do or not, I’m going to aim for three days minimum next week.

Three days of bone shaking, muscle pulling torture.

Yes, next week.

Next week will be better. Won’t it?

MONTH FIVE: Shall we try again?

Oh dear, that didn’t go well, did it.

Since my last post I had visited the gym one, two, let me think – ah! – no, ever.

Which works out as £105 down the drain in monthly fees.

But to be fair, I really had been busy with work and life in general.

And remarkably, my weight creeped down a couple of pounds – and stayed there.

Because as much as I avoided any actual exercise, the curry’s are down to one a month and beer has been turned into wine.

Admittedly, lot’s of wine. But only good stuff.

However in a peak of optimism last Tuesday I ventured underground into the temple of doom, plucked out the circuit that had been lovingly prepared for me, and had a go.

After the third 500m sprint on a rowing machine, I decided self preservation was in order and went home.

Via the pub.

But I returned two days later and, with an instructor hovering nearby to scream ‘no pain no gain you ‘orrible little man’ – okay, simply to check I wasn’t having a heart attack – I set a double course record!

One, of actually doing all the exercises on my card and in under two hours.

I was thrilled, overjoyed. But most of all knacked.

People say exercise boosts your energy levels, makes you think quicker and feel better.

Me? I was staggering around like a drunk man, light-headed as if crawling through the desert crying ‘water-waaattteeer’.

There was a flood alert this week that forecasters put down to heavy rain.

I reckon it may have been my fault with all the fluid I deposited during my session.

Now this week has been a wipe out, genuinely too busy.

But next week? Next week will be better.

Won’t it?