Training - report #2

It’s time for an update on our 5K training for ‘Race for Life’. Well I say our training, it’s actually Jo who is training for RFL, and I’m just trying to support her.

Related posts: Original post Training report #1

Glen:-

I finally managed to get myself to the gym today. It’s been quite a few months since I last succeeded in this, so simply finding the place was arduous enough. I had to navigate my way to the gym near Liverpool Street Station, via the most prolonged and illogical route possible, because the direct route takes me past Starbucks, 3 pubs, 2 chocolate emporiums and within nasal range of a McDonalds. June is approaching fast so I couldn’t risk getting sidetracked again (this is the third time I’ve set off for the gym but I failed to arrive the first two times).

I found myself in the changing rooms feeling all inadequate again; quietly trying to get past two beefed up fellers in order to access the lockers. There is something about a gym changing room that always leaves me feeling over exposed and hideously fat. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck as I felt everyone in the room staring at me and mocking my ‘moobs’. I don’t know why I get so self conscious, because the reality is that the men in the changing rooms never even notice I’m there. The gay ones aren’t actually all that interested in someone like me, funnily enough, as there is generally more exciting eye candy walking about. The straight ones never notice me because the only people they notice getting changed are themselves in the mirror (especially after a workout) or if somebody else with a similar or better physique walks in. The challenge to their superiority will be noted, and they will quickly alter their posture to try and psyche them out.

Whilst all this is happening, I surreptitiously whip off my pants behind a towel, and throw on a pair of shorts that have been sat in my gym bag for nearly 6 months, waiting for this big day. Then I put on my trusty England top (backwards the first time, as it turned out) and crept out into the noise and bustle of the gym.

I slyly attempt to stretch without letting anyone see that I’m stretching, come on – we have all laughed at the comedy fat man trying to look serious stretching at the gym.

Then I got onto the Cross Trainer and stood for an age trying to remember how my cranky old 256Mb, cheap as chips MP3 player worked. I was trying to find the Fleetwood Mac tracks I’d added earlier, feeling that The Chain would see me through this ordeal. Eventually, I gave up and just set it playing a bit of Ska instead. The next two minutes were spent trying to get the damn cross trainer working. What program do I want? How heavy am I ? No – in Kilo’s not Imperial you fat bafoon! How long do I want?

It took longer to set up the session than I actually spent bouncing around on it. I’d decided to only use it as a warm up, and so 5 minutes gentle and unsynchronised bouncing later I was done (how are you supposed to work the arms in time anyway?). One of the fitness team came over with a worried look to ask me if I was epileptic and in trouble, but I waved him away and pointed to the imaginary shrapnel wound in my leg.

The moment came that I could put off no longer, I looked at the treadmill, and it looked at me. “You play fair by me and we will get on just fine” I said, “but if you give me any gip you will find yourself in deep trouble my friend”.

I don’t think the pep talk worked though, because I noticed my lace was undone and when I bent down to do it up, with one foot on the conveyor belt, I suddenly discovered that they move on their own. My foot shot forward and the gym was treated to a loud falsetto shriek, as I discovered I can do the splits.

I set the machine off, remember I’m in great shape for a Sumo Umpa-Lumpa, so when I set it to 9.6 KM’s an hour, I virtually had to sprint to keep up. It was only after the git of a treadmill had got up to full speed, that I remembered about the dead man’s cut off cord and, knowing all too well how much I often need it, made a grab for it. Sadly, I was already too far back on the machine, and spent the next 40 seconds desperately trying to reach out and grab it, putting extra spurts of speed on to catch the front of the treadmill up.

Once I was safely Crocodile clipped to the cut off button, I relaxed. Well I’m using relaxed in its loosest possible definition here, I just mean that I was able to try and concentrate on The Selector for a bit.

Had I actually concentrated on The Selector, instead of craning my neck to watch the video screen in the corner that was showing quite a lot of Lady GaGa, I probably wouldn’t have tried to run on the side panel, and therefore fall over the front bar of the machine, strangling myself with the super glued cut off cord in the process.

Actually, I managed to steady myself with only a slight bang against the front bar and with only half of the people in the room noticing, so no damage done.

Eventually, some 10 leg aching minutes after setting off, I arrived at the cool down. I’d done it – a whole mile! I was so pleased with myself that I let out a loud “YES!” I regretted that immediately as I realised I was completely knackered, and couldn’t maintain the cool down speed.

As I sat, back in the changing room, trying to get my pulse back down to something that was vaguely human, I noticed a bloke strutting about completely naked, checking himself out in the mirror. In order to save him some effort and to allow myself a bit of space to concentrate on dying, I whispered into his ear that he needn’t worry, I’d already done a thorough survey and his was indeed the biggest WMI (Weapon of Mass Insemination) in the changing room. He quickly got himself dressed as far away from me as possible, whilst I went back to emptying a brand new can of deodorant over myself, which proved to be a waste of time.

I am determined to go back there at least once more this month.

Jo:-

I have no amusing details of Jo’s training this time. I’m very proud of how well my wife is doing. Jo is sticking to her training programme very well, and is running regularly. I do still keep hearing a car pull up just before she comes in though. Hopefully she is having an affair with a taxi driver; otherwise this training will be costing us a fortune!