I am not on course to break any records, but I have made some tentative steps towards getting fit again. David Lloyd is the temporary gymnasium of choice and it has served me well, thus far.
I finally got back on the saddle of a bike, albeit an exercise bike, after my jaunt to Bristol from London. I do enjoy cycling, but the particular bike I picked was positioned in front of a large TV showing the morning edition of 'Jeremy Kyle'. Three participants of the show, looking much like the result of generations of inbreeding, were arguing about text flirting, drinking too much and the paternity of a little boy caught up in the middle of the whole debacle.
Somewhere along the lines after many foul mouthed tirades, goading from the presenter and a passage of multiple gesticulations, the paternity issue was resolved and they were sent packing to carry on with their miserable existence of swearing, drinking and texting.
I tried my hardest to pedal away from the heinous torture, but alas exercise bikes are not renown for their moveable capabilities and I was trapped with 5 minutes left of my exercise programme. My pulse was racing from both experiences before I decided to head off to the weights section.
I have never been a great fan of any of the weight sections I have ever come across. In a previous existence, I used to visit a gym near my parents house. More often than not, I managed to time my visit with NASA boys (National Anabolic Steroids Association) - I jest with the last bit. The sort of man that would spend much of the morning, having polished off an 18 egg omelette, counting how many protruding veins he had and carefully selecting the smallest pair of cycling shorts from his closet. The stench of protein shakes and ego polish normally sent me packing early doors.
I've never quite got to grips with the whole mirrored atmosphere either. It is not that I dislike looking at myself in the mirror, but I just don't see the point of gazing, puppy eyed, at my sweaty efforts to lift 20kg weight above my head - but whatever floats your boat.
I beat a retreat and headed down to the pool. Supposedly the best exercise one can get, unless like me, you have trouble staying afloat and risk suffocation by filling your lungs with liquid. Thankfully, the pool is relatively shallow and I did my very best impression of a frog for 25 lengths or so.
The Sauna was the next port of call and gladly it was not rammed to the ceiling with Swedish bodybuilders and their frying pans. I did my best to wheeze my way through the 15 minutes of sweating before retiring for a much deserved spa.
The bubbles were working their magic and my mind begin to drift. Bliss. It was then that I was joined by a rather attractive bikini clad lady, who, how should I describe it? She entered the bubbling cauldron complete with artificially enlarged buoyancy aids and I am not talking about water-wings here. I wasn't quite sure where to look (or perhaps I did?). Anyway, the bubbles ceased and I made my excuses and retired to the shower before meeting Joy to take me home.
Thoroughly enjoyable and bound to become a habit.
Word of the Day: Colposinquanonia - Estimating a woman's beauty based on her chest
Quote of the Day: "A bear, however hard he tries, grows tubby without exercise" - A A Milne
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