Tag: Fitness

Getting back into the Fitness Swing of Things

Following on from my last blog on running, I thought I would continue the theme of exercising in your forties, which for me, is a completely different experience to exercising in my twenties. I follow fitness guru, Jillian Michaels on Instagram, she is amazing, I used to do her on-line classes.  She is in her forties, fit as, and a body to match.  She is my idol, and how I wish I look when I am having a pity picnic and hating the person I see looking at me in the mirror.  I realise of course that I will never have a body like her, but it doesn’t hurt to aspire to great heights.  However, my ill-discipline will probably stop me from ever getting anywhere close.

 I started back at my local fitness class last week after an extremely slothful and alcohol fuelled summer holiday.  Now when I say slothful and alcohol fuelled, that doesn’t mean I did zero exercise and drank myself stupid every day.  What I mean is that I managed a walk or run most days (to keep my sanity of being home with the kids during the long, long school holidays) and drank alcohol on a regular basis (one or two glasses a night, most nights).  For me, this is significant for several reasons.  Firstly, my body, as I have discovered, loves fat.  When I say loves fat, I mean it loves to accumulate fat at every opportunity, be it through a lack of hard out exercise, or through drinking alcohol and eating crap. Secondly, if it gets even a whiff of a slowdown in the exercise department then it thinks it needs to pad itself. For what I don’t know-a famine?  I had decided that this Christmas and summer holidays, I was not under any circumstances going to do what I have done every year by taking my foot off the brake and wallowing in excess.  I bought myself some weights to supplement my in residence medicine ball and vowed to work out three times a week in addition to my running, while my usual fitness class was on a Christmas break.  Who was I kidding, I must have done three workouts all up.  My excuse, none really, just pure laziness, and we are having one of the hottest summers in years which would put anyone off exercise after 9am in the morning (actually not everyone, I have seen some crazies out there running at midday).

So last week I hauled my ever growing arse back to the gym in order to stop the spread.  Now, the class is not for the faint hearted, it is a 40 odd minute class of sprinting, boxing, weights, and other exercises with names like frogz, burpees, press ups, planks.  You get the idea, it’s no walk in the park, and it makes running with seagulls seem like a breeze.  But, it gets results, and Steve our instructor never gives us the easy option, no matter how much we whinge (and I whinge a lot).  It is so hot on my first day back that I am sweating even before we have done the warm up.  So you can just imagine how I look by the end.  Sweat is running off me, it’s like I have spent an hour in a sauna, I am sweating in places I never knew I could sweat.  My legs are shaking, and I am hoarse from complaining about every single exercise we have had to do.  But I am feeling extremely pleased with myself-I can imagine that my clothes will definitely be looser after that workout-if only from a loss of fluids from all of the sweating.  And I have managed to finish the class without vomiting or passing out-two great accomplishments.  I think of myself as being like that meme that has been going around social media, the one with the fit woman versus the elephant-what I think I look like, and what I actually look like.  Yep, I do not look like the fit girl-think more baby elephant!  Things wobble, I can’t touch my toes, the list goes on, but I am there doing it, so I am up there with that girl, regardless of what I look like.

Since then, I have been back twice-the morning classes only run twice a week and my enthusiasm wanes by evening, so evening classes are out of the question.  I had my third class today, and it definitely feels better than the first-although the legs were still shaky, and tomorrow I won’t be able to sit on the toilet without wincing.  I managed to whinge through the whole session too, which I reckon is testament to a good workout, if I didn’t complain then that would probably mean it was too easy.  And I was able, most of the time, to keep up with the thirty somethings, no small feat at times.  So far, the body looks the same, I guess I need to learn some patience-hard in a society of instant gratification.  I will stay in the oldies corner, as it was called today, and keep reminding myself that although I will never look like Jillian Michaels, I’m not doing too bad at all.

Running with the Seagulls.

Most mornings I get up early and go for a run or a walk. I love the time to myself, the quiet of the morning when others are still at home, when it is pretty much just me and nature. The world seems different at that time of the day, and I find it is a time when I can reflect on life and its issues, think up new writing ideas, and solve the world’s problems all at the same time. It sounds idyllic, imagine having the world to yourself, even for only an hour. And idyllic it is, until the seagulls turn up. You may ask what is wrong with seagulls, what could they possibly do to ruin my zen moment? Never mind those seagulls who have been stealing food out of people’s hands. Don’t even consider those which decide to shit just at the precise time so it lands on your favourite top/in your hair, as you arrive at that crucial interview or social event. Those seagulls have nothing on the ones I encounter on a regular basis.

As I run, I am surrounded by the sea on one side, and tree covered hills on the other. It’s a beautiful route, and I am fully appreciative of my surroundings. I am in the zone, thinking I run like a professional, although my laboured breath suggests otherwise-I really do need to get a reality check sometimes. And then I round the corner, and as I run along the bay, it starts. The sound is undeniable, a piercing angry screech. Something sounds really pissed off. Looking up, I see first one, then two, and sometimes up to six very angry looking seagulls. Now, you may ask how I know they are angry, well it’s not so much their looks, as their actions.

As soon as they are close enough, they take it in turns to dive bomb me. I can tell you now, that to be dive bombed by a seagull is not a pleasant thing, and in fact can be a little bit intimidating (read terrifying). Think ‘Running of the Bulls’ with feathers. They swoop so low that I can almost smell the fish that they had for breakfast. This aerial assault lasts for several minutes, they follow me for 500 metres or more, not giving up even when I try hiding under trees, before eventually going back to their beach, and presumably their young, but not before I have made a complete and utter idiot of myself. I am reduced to looking like a mad woman, running along, arms flailing in the air, yelling at them to go away. It is quite a sight apparently, as my husband discovered when he was driving to work, early one morning. He drove around the hill, into the bay, only to be confronted with me running much faster than usual, with half a dozen seagulls in pursuit, and a look of pure terror on my face. He said he was laughing so much that he nearly crashed the car. The unfortunate part is that I have to run back past them on my way home, there is no alternate route to take. On the upside, my husband now believes me when I tell him that seagulls are trying to kill me!

So the image I have of myself running with grace and athleticism has been crushed by a handful of seagulls. I have come to the realisation that my days of being an athlete are over, I will never be the same runner as I was in my twenties, those days are long gone. However, I will keep plodding on, as much for the calm it brings to my mind as for my fitness, and I will tell you this for nothing, those seagulls will never get the better of me. #Never give up.