Fit for what

I like being fit. And for the last four years despite a slight resemblence to this fellow


I was quite happy being unfit. I don't really like getting fit. As I wrote a few weeks ago, I had become quite dissatisfied with playing football and sucking, but instead of doing the sensible thing, giving it away and drinking more beer and cooking up a storm, I decided to do something about it.

Something, it turned out, was the gym. Me and gyms have never really seen eye to eye. For one I'm a bit of a music snob and all the bump and grind r'n'b that they play gives me a headache like a speed addict detoxing in a room full of blackboards and chicks with really long nails. Second off I always had the image of instructors being inanely cheerful urging me to "go for it" or "be your best" at every opportunity.

The fact is, I'm a little competitive and I mostly will try and push it a little harder, which in this case means that instead of bitching about the music or the instructor I was more worried about, what's that thing I'm meant to do, oh yeah, breathe.

I'm really enjoying the classes to augment training with the rep touch boys. I've even gone to one or two at 530am. I might even venture onto the floor and do some weights. Maybe not. The one that hurt more than any though was the pilates. Absolutely killed me. Anyone laughing right now can send their comments to this man.


He does it three times a week.

Of course I haven't lost any weight and it's bloody hurting but I'm on the way. Wind back the clock five years, here I come.

Lantanaland from the iPhone