How hard can it be? Just like riding a bike; literally but without the change of scene and feeling that you’ve got somewhere. Other than halfway to an Outpatient appointment with an Orthopaedic Surgeon and even closer to having to fork out for a ‘Stairlift’. So you turn up are shown to your bike; measured and told to hop aboard. Music is played, orders barked and off you go. Sprinting, jog, standing jog, hover; these terms quickly becoming synonymous with pain, strain and future use of a cane. After 1.5 minutes I hit the ‘wall’; that mental and physical barrier that must be overcome in order to ever progress anything; ever. I hadn’t anticipated its arrival that early especially as I hadn’t even removed my fleece; but arrive it did and I had to draw upon my very shallow pool of grit and determination. I made it through and five minutes later was feeling jubilant that I’d neither died, wet my pants or bashed my fanny on a particularly indelicate sit down move. Okay that last bit did actually happen but I managed to ‘style it out’; turning my shout of pain into a ‘whoop’. I tried to assess the damage when I got home but frankly it’s difficult to see the wood for the trees down there so I’m choosing to assume I don’t need medical attention.
I came away with jelly legs, a new cough; which I assume was triggered by air actually reaching the bottom of my lungs and a red, sweaty face. So will I return? Of course I bloody will because as I’m fast discovering when it comes to the gym and exercise we’re all a glutton for punishment. Choosing to view pain, injury and occasional humiliation as progress, achievement and success…plus I’m still hankering for that ass before I’m fifty.