I was convinced that the hardest thing about my day today
would be getting up at 5.30 am. I was
so wrong!
I will explain just how wrong I was in a moment, but first I
hear you asking: why? Why was I up so early
if I wasn’t jetting off on my hols?
Well, because I’ve heard a rumour that the sun is
threatening to shine, which means it’s time to squeeze into the summer
togs. Which means it’s time to deal
with the flabby bits!
The plan was hatched.
I was to accompany Ellie to a ‘kettle bell’ session at her gym. Kettle bells are, not surprisingly,
kettle-shaped weights, and a kettle bell workout is supposed to burn fat like
you wouldn’t believe.
My two disgustingly fit daughters, and my maddeningly fit sister
are big fans of these kettles, and as somebody who doesn’t know much about
anything exercise-related, I am inclined to believe those who do. So
come on girls, get those shorts out of hiding, we’re gonna be lean and mean,
toned and honed!
I suppose it would have been common sense to stop and think,
for just a second, about my workout history…
A few leg lifts with Jane Fonda back in the 80s is more or
less it. Even then I was more interested
in my stripy new leg warmers than actually making it ‘burn’.
More recently I have been known to indulge in the occasional
stroll with ‘Trevor’ – my friendly and undemanding treadmill. We share a chapter from my Kindle whilst we
have a little wander.
But for the last 30 years….?
Have I been inside a gym?
Well, a couple of times.
Have I ever exercised for as long as an hour? Er… unless cycling all day from bar to bar in
Spain counts… then, no.
Have I ever exercised with weights? Er… never.
Can anybody think of any reason why a kettle bell workout
should give me any trouble?
Course not! No more
trouble than you would expect from competing alongside Olympic swimmers having
just got your 25 yards breaststroke badge.
So, there I am, looking good in the lycra, quietly assessing
the expertise of my fellow kettlers.
Some skinny, some decidedly large, most many years younger and one or
two even older than me. Should be
OK. I can hold my own with this lot I
reckon. Ellie got me a baby kettle and
a mat and we were ready.
Like all idiots blissfully unaware of the consequences of
their actions I urged the class to get started.
It did.
In the first minute of the warm up I fought the urge to
laugh. I couldn’t help feeling slightly
ridiculous. What am I doing? I
thought. Am I dreaming? It’s not even 6.05 and I’m jumping up and
down like my bum is on fire!
Let me tell you, by the end of the warm up, all traces of a
smile had left my face and I was beginning to get a little worried.
We picked up our kettles and followed the instructor in
performing a movement designed to tear your thighs in half and flay the fat
from your buttocks. This carried on
for some time. Then we progressed
relentlessly on to torture other parts of our bodies. I remember feeling distinctly uncomfortable
as rivers of blood coursed through my head and threatened to pour from my eyes!
It wasn’t so much that I went a funny colour, more like all
trace of any colour drained from my face.
I turned to Ellie and signalled that I had to leave for a
minute and fled from the room.
I never was any good at this, I reflected as I crawled into
the locker room and pressed my pale cheek against the cold tiled floor. Had I been able to breathe I may have become
aware of the lingering aroma of a thousand sweaty feet, but, thankfully,
breathing was still a little way off.
Even as a kid I couldn’t hack it.
Whenever I ran the 200 metres sprint I would invariably throw up and, on
occasion, pass out. I still haven’t
quite got over the kiss of life I received from Mr Wynn. Even the joy of winning the race can’t erase
that dreadful memory.
So there I lay, hugging the floor, wondering how to deal
with my shame. After a while I hid in
the loo and pondered on my predicament.
What do I do now? Go back in like
nothing has happened? Have another
go? Or just bugger off home?
Foolishly, I went back in.
I will not give in that easily I railed – a bloody kettle
will not beat me!
Ah well. Another
fifteen minutes and out I came again!
This time it wasn’t too bad. I had
company. Another lady (of similar age)
was draped along the bench in the locker room, so I took up my cosy position on
the floor and we had a nice little chat.
Ellie came to check that I was still alive and I eventually
slipped back into the room that was now filled with smart-arsed exercise nuts
that I hated.
However, to my delight, they were on mats! “I didn’t know we got to lie down!” I cried,
gleefully pressing my back to my mat. Of
course we were still expected to swing our kettles about, but it’s so much
easier to hide whilst on the floor – and as I had spent most of the last hour
on the boards I was getting quite good at it.
Just as I was wondering if it were possible to endure this
humiliation any longer, our torturer announced the cool down. Even that had me foxed! As if things could get any worse. When everybody lunged to the left I lunged
to the right. I considered switching,
but decided that I was far too embedded in the role of the class dunce to be
bothered. So I just kept a straight
face and made out like every body else was wrong.
Ellie tried ever so hard to assure me that I didn’t make a
complete fool of myself. She has even
told me that I’m due another session.
Free! (I suspect the nice
instructor lady felt sorry for me!) But
what a dilemma? Could I possibly
return? In disguise perhaps? A blonde wig and a Madonna facemask?
Or, should I visit the doctor and tell her that whenever I
do strenuous exercise it nearly kills me?
I suspect she’ll say: “well then
don’t do it.” This would be good advice.
But no, I’m determined!
I’m going to bully my fitness freak daughters into helping me get fit
and when I can get through a whole class of kettle bells without stopping, fainting,
throwing up or seeking medical attention, I’ll buy lots of very nice wine and
get myself well and truly ‘kettled’!
