Back a while ago I confessed attendance of a gym and reported on my beginnings there. Then I promptly injured myself. Don’t worry, nothing serious, just the aggravation of an existing semi-banjaxed knee. Well, recuperation stretched out from weeks to months, and sure, then it was Christmas, and… you know how the story goes.
After the festive time and the dark days of early January, I took it upon myself to get back into the saddle of the stationary bike thing, and whatever else they had there that also had saddles. What was initially a foray into fitness has now become a doctor’s orders sort of thing, in that she said as lovely as I am, she would like to see less of me. I took that to mean the shrinking of me, not the amount of appointments we were having.
You’ll recall the massacre I described the last time I went gymming, and with that in mind, I resolved that I would have to have some sort of proper plan in place, actually make a real effort and not just attend whenever my favourite floppy t-shirt was clean. You might remember that my last encounter with a treadmill went a little something like this:
Luckily I had the support and clever suggestions of Mrs. Bear, who mentioned the recent popularity of smart phone apps in the fight against the flab. I decided to give one called My Fitness Pal a go, and it’s working out pretty well for me so far. It’s like a little online database of food and exercise which works out your calorie intake as well as how much you burn off with exercise. It’s a bit like a conscience and a motivator rolled in to one, and although there are some days when I want to tell it terrible lies, overall it’s probably the best way for me to make a bit of progress.
So I’m eating less and telling my phone all about it. That just leaves my old nemesis, the exercise. I figured out what sort of machines I could use without messing my knee up again, which at the moment involves the rowing machine and the bike. I had been listening to music on headphones, as the thumpy stuff that the gym plays makes my soul weep, but then switched to audiobooks, just to give myself a bit more distraction and not be staring at the second counter on the dial. Now it might not work for everyone, but I’m doing about ten minutes more on each machine than I could manage before and it’s all thanks to Agatha Christie! I’m rowing and pedalling through a collection of her short stories at the moment, and I get so engrossed with the butlers and the poison darts and the little grey cells that I don’t notice the time passing nearly as much. Thank God she was prolific!
Perhaps it’s just me, but it also seems like a lot of the fembots have gone away, replaced by some fairly ordinary folk. There’s also a substantial amount of short men who like to lift big, implausible weights, but I try not to look at them too much. Apart from the obvious reasons, I have a constant fear that they might not be as strong as they think they are, or they like to appear. I haven’t seen any wobbly blunders yet, but I still keep my eyes on the counter thingy and my ears on the murder/theft/disappearance/general mystery, while I row my boat merrily nowhere.