Per my first blog on new year's resolutions, I finally joined the gym in April.
And went for the first time in, er, May.
Going to the gym is a little like starting a new job: you don't really know where things are kept, and how anything works. And with everyone else in the gym red-faced and aggressively puffing away, there tends to be few approachable people around. It is therefore advisable to make your first trip to the gym at a considerably off-peak hour, affording you the time to try out the equipment and familiarise yourself with the settings. And if that means making your maiden gym voyage at 9pm on a Thursday, then so be it.
I made my gym debut (for the first time in about five years anyway) on such a Thursday, a few weeks back. What first, I thought; some cardio perhaps? I started on a machine excitingly labelled the Spinmaster 3000 (or something like that). 'Spinning' is a word that seems to have cemented its place in the fitness world's vernacular over the last decade or so. It is, of course, simply a pimped up way of saying 'cycling'. I climbed onto the machine, and after various saddle and handle bar adjustments, was ready to begin my journey to fitness. The touchscreen offered a multitude of options. Simplicity is the key, thought I. So, shunning options to 'exercise to my preferred playlist' and suchlike, I went straight to 'build your work-out'. Simple.
Or so I thought. I eventually abandonded the Spinmaster 2000 after a near ten-minute long grilling by the machine as to my height, weight, age, heart-rate, eye-colour, star-sign, blood-type, penis-size and so on.
What else could I try? Ah, the rowing machine. A contraption operable even by the most luddite of gym go-ers. I lasted about ten minutes, before dismounting the machine with all the grace of a hippo on rollerskates, and with a face like a ready-to-burst pimple.
Now for the weight-work. Fortunately the gym was completely empty that night, though I was reminded of the various times I had gone to the local gym and being put off this particular sub-domain of the fitness world by those who traditionally inhabited it: no-necked, shaved-headed blokes who would lift ridiculous weights and moan as if they were in the throes of giving birth. I therefore opted for some of the weights machines, as opposed to the barbells.
I did a few reps on various machines, never over-exerting myself, as the safety posters gently advised (and my own muscles screamed in insistence). The bonus of having no one else in the gym was not having to increase the weight settings every time I left a machine, in an immature attempt to dupe the bloke following that I was lifting more than I actually was. Hey, it's a guy thing. Face it: the gym is one big pissing contest.
I left the weight machines; there, that takes care of the upper torso, now for the flabby middle. I briefly considered the ab-roller, but no: no matter how many times I tried, I couldn't get it out of my head that this was a device built expressly for women. So some push-ups and back exercises later, I was ready for a cool-down.
Enter: the treadmill. Doesn't seem too tricky. I press start, it whirrs into life. Hey, that's not too bad. I push a button to increase the speed. A brisk walk: no sweat. I push the button again, and move up to level 10. A light jog: easy. I push the button a few more times and, like Spinal Tap's amplifiers, I go up to 11. Am off to a nice leisurely jog. It's all good. My wrist is sweaty so I take my watch off and put it in my pocket.
Then it all goes wrong.
First, the jogging shakes my ipod player and sets it to random mode: out of nowhere Rocky Robin by the Jackson Five annoyingly comes on (damn, I knew that Jackson Five Greatest Hits compilation would be my undoing some day). I try to switch songs, but with the jogging it's too blurry. Then my watch falls out of my pocket and is carried off the end of the treadmill. My towel is next to go, slipping off the handrail onto the treadmill track. I just manage to skip out of its way. Then I panic that my watch and my towel will somehow get tangled up in the machinery of the treadmill, causing it to explode, leaving nothing more than two smoking Reebok trainers. So, failing to dispell the thought, I press stop and run to a standstill (U2 reference).
I wiped my face with a towel and had a gulp of water. I then attempt to move and am nauseatingly dizzy. This is exercise, and I hate it.
Still, in the immortal words of Yazz and the Plastic Population, the only way is up.
Joggin' on,
CB
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