A Tale of Two Gyms - with thanks to Charles Dickens
Wake up early on Sunday, with a sense of belief, and with a sense of incredulity. What did I agree to yesterday? Even counsel of doom could not help me to work out what and why with his incisive cross-examination. Decide to try cycling in a gym to get an idea of what might be in store for me.
When I go out it is one of those lovely March mornings. Can’t make up my mind whether it is the season of Light, or the season of Darkness, the spring of hope, or the winter of despair, whether I have everything before me, or have nothing before me, whether I am going direct to Heaven, or going direct the other way.
Long suffering husband is a member of the Really Awful Club in PM, where he swims regularly and where they also have exercise bikes. The gym is rather nice, despite the name of the club. The exercise bikes have a choice of hundreds of channels of TV and radio. Realise I can’t tune in to any of the entertainment as I have no ear-phones with me to plug into the sound. Try to read one of the Sunday papers. After 20 minutes cycling (at level 3 out of 12) I almost collapse. Legs are stiff and back and shoulders are killing. Reading broadsheets is clearly not a good idea on a bicycle.
Following morning I decide to go to nearby local gym off the Vale, where they offer concessions for those who have seen half a century. The entrance is £1.50. As I now know all about gyms, having visited one the previous day, I have brought with me my earphones. Sadly there is no choice of noise on the bikes, and I cycle in silence. Again for 20 minutes at level 3, but am not sure what the max level is on this bike. Unlike the Really Awful Club this gym does not have fluffy white towels or any towels at all, and of course I haven’t brought one. Leave the gym looking as if I’d swum the channel. It was the session of wisdom, it was the session of foolishness.
In a reverie, I think about the two gyms, revolutions (per minute) and the moveable framework that is La Bicyclette to which I will be sentenced for three days from London to Brussels. I wonder whether it will be the best of times or the worst of times, and whether I will be able to console myself that it is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done. Swiftly decide that there may be some competition for that prize. However after the grueling daily cycles we will endure on the sponsored bike ride it is likely to be a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known - even if I have to share a berth with the Phillimore Firecracker between the Hook and Harwich. Reflect that there is nothing poetic or heroic about the slog of training, pull myself together realising I will need discipline, and a low (very) boredom threshold, to maintain an exercise regime on a gym bike.
Wake up early on Sunday, with a sense of belief, and with a sense of incredulity. What did I agree to yesterday? Even counsel of doom could not help me to work out what and why with his incisive cross-examination. Decide to try cycling in a gym to get an idea of what might be in store for me.
When I go out it is one of those lovely March mornings. Can’t make up my mind whether it is the season of Light, or the season of Darkness, the spring of hope, or the winter of despair, whether I have everything before me, or have nothing before me, whether I am going direct to Heaven, or going direct the other way.
Long suffering husband is a member of the Really Awful Club in PM, where he swims regularly and where they also have exercise bikes. The gym is rather nice, despite the name of the club. The exercise bikes have a choice of hundreds of channels of TV and radio. Realise I can’t tune in to any of the entertainment as I have no ear-phones with me to plug into the sound. Try to read one of the Sunday papers. After 20 minutes cycling (at level 3 out of 12) I almost collapse. Legs are stiff and back and shoulders are killing. Reading broadsheets is clearly not a good idea on a bicycle.
Following morning I decide to go to nearby local gym off the Vale, where they offer concessions for those who have seen half a century. The entrance is £1.50. As I now know all about gyms, having visited one the previous day, I have brought with me my earphones. Sadly there is no choice of noise on the bikes, and I cycle in silence. Again for 20 minutes at level 3, but am not sure what the max level is on this bike. Unlike the Really Awful Club this gym does not have fluffy white towels or any towels at all, and of course I haven’t brought one. Leave the gym looking as if I’d swum the channel. It was the session of wisdom, it was the session of foolishness.
In a reverie, I think about the two gyms, revolutions (per minute) and the moveable framework that is La Bicyclette to which I will be sentenced for three days from London to Brussels. I wonder whether it will be the best of times or the worst of times, and whether I will be able to console myself that it is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done. Swiftly decide that there may be some competition for that prize. However after the grueling daily cycles we will endure on the sponsored bike ride it is likely to be a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known - even if I have to share a berth with the Phillimore Firecracker between the Hook and Harwich. Reflect that there is nothing poetic or heroic about the slog of training, pull myself together realising I will need discipline, and a low (very) boredom threshold, to maintain an exercise regime on a gym bike.
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