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….
