Battling Bertram for Supremacy - Back to the Gym


I’d like to start this post by introducing you to an acquaintance of mine; Bertram. His full title is Bertram Beer Belly and he is my central circumference, as christened by my better half. When my stomach starts to grow, this is a clear sign of Bertram taking charge. Bertram is the beer-guzzling, pie-eating demon that I must conquer; he is the one who orders the Beef Wellington, rather than the salmon and insists on that one final pint before we go home. Bertram is the bad pixie sitting on my shoulder, listing all the fun things I could be doing rather than exercising. He is the dragon I must slay.

Bertram wins again
It is fair to say that Bertram has been in charge for some time now and as part of the process of wresting control from him I found myself at the gym on a cold Tuesday morning in January, after an absence of a good eighteen months or more. The gym is one I know from previous ‘get fit’ campaigns – there have been several, as I’ve mentioned before - and it’s a nice ten-minute stroll from home. As is custom for a “first time back”, my bag was missing several useful items – most annoyingly my iPod – but I at least had enough clothing to spare my blushes and save the breakfasts of the other gym users. Anyway, here I was ready to blow away those cobwebs and blast myself into shape.

The “first time back” is always hard but, good grief, this was ridiculous! No, not ridiculous, it was frankly embarrassing. I spent an hour there but was so rubbish I couldn’t even work up a sweat, so unfit I had become. Where, once upon a time, I could thrash away on the machines, now I was moving at a snail’s pace with my finger continually reducing the difficulty level. Sit-ups? Not a chance. Press-ups? Dream on. Squats? Ow – I think I pulled something there. At least the gym was fairly empty and there were few witnesses to my debacle. This was not as I’d planned it.

A second, third and fourth time followed with similarly dismal returns; I was getting nowhere very slowly and deep down I knew the real reason. You see, I simply do not find exercise enjoyable; I hate it with a passion and resent it before, during and afterwards. Yes, I know endorphins are supposed to be whizzing around my brain and I should be filled with a great sense of achievement and self-worth but it just doesn’t happen. I try, don’t get me wrong, but I reach a point where it just gets too much and I stop. I had managed to push through this in the past but I’d hit the wall this time.

This counts as exercise, surely!
It was time to reassess my approach. Cross-trainers, rowing machines, steppers and bikes all have the flaw that I am the person driving the exercise. If I’m struggling, and by “if” I clearly mean “when”, I can simply slow down or stop. The exit strategy is simply too easy. So, by elimination, the treadmill became my exercise of choice. I can set up the program and it runs itself meaning that I also have to run…well, walk. If I feel like it’s too much, I can’t just stop – not without creating a “You’ve Been Framed” moment, anyway. No, I must push the big red button that says “failure”. For some reason it means that I keep on going, working harder than I ever could on the other machines.

And it is working. Gradually. After two months I'm half a stone lighter and feel a bit fitter and more flexible. My clothes are less tight than they were and my face is noticeably slimming down. This was helped in no small way by the unexpected messages of support and advice I received after my previous blog post (click link). Social media has a reputation for unpleasantness – and there are some very dark corners where there is just that – but overall I find it a place where kindness prevails. I’m extremely grateful to everyone who took the time to comment – it was a real boost. I also fully intend to act on some of the suggestions I received – and one of these has already been seized upon.

I had always wanted to play a sport but, being blunt, I’m not fit enough to play any to a high enough level for me to seriously consider it. Then someone responding to my blog mentioned Walking Football. I’d heard of it but never really paid it much attention; dismissing it as something old people do. Well, being old is something I now must reluctantly admit to and, the more I thought about it, the better it sounded. A competitive sport that didn’t require an enormous level of fitness to participate in. I decided to dive in and give it a go. Triumph or tragedy; which will it be? I’ll be sure to let you know.

If you enjoyed reading this, you may want to check out my previous blog posts:

Fifty, Fat & Unfit

Follow me on:


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

(Not) A Stroll in the Park - My Introduction to the World of Walking Football

Image
The last time I tried any competitive sport was three years ago. I joined an impromptu cricket match in the park with some friends and after five minutes fell over chasing the ball, smashing my knee which blew up like a balloon! My retirement from any further such activity was immediate on the basis that I was too bloody old for all those shenanigans. However, after reading one of my previous blog posts, my friend Andy suggested walking football to me as a good way of getting fit. And at first glance, sport at a walking pace on a flat and true artificial pitch carried no threat of repeat damage to my personage. Even though Andy is as fit as a butcher’s dog (despite being roughly the same age as me, for shame!) it still sounded like something I may actually be able to compete at. Or at least something at which I wouldn’t embarrass myself. I signed up for a trial session the following week. My knee performing a perfect impression of a cricket ball just to mock me! It was on...
Read more

Up Against The Clock - A Play In 24 Hours

Image
It’s Easter Sunday at about 8pm; seven people sit around a table and ponder an antique bed warming pan. Twenty four hours later, five of these people will perform a twelve minute play based around it. This is the essence of the Overnight Plays which has become an annual event at The Questors Theatre in Ealing. This year is my debut as a writer for the plays and as I look at the warming pan I wonder, not for the first or last time, Why On Earth I have decided to do it. The Prop! The Overnight Plays were instigated six years ago by the inimitable Tristan Marshall and he is still the head of the show. Each year, he gathers together seven writers, seven directors and a group of around thirty actors. At precisely 7.45pm, he splits the assembled actors into seven groups and matches them up with a writer and director. There may be two actors in a group or there may be seven; only Tristan knows beforehand. The groups are then assigned a mystery prop, which must form a central par...
Read more