Running on Faith
Monday, Wednesday and Friday are gym days. Most weeks. Well, ok, some weeks. I was pretty good when I first moved to Bath. I was full of the excitement and optimism of a sparkly new adventure which promised magical things. I’m still excited about my new endeavour; it’s just less glittery, and the gym is somehow harder to get to on cold days.
I’ve always been overweight. When my husband left in 2010 I took solace in running. I somehow felt like the pain running caused was positive because it was self-inflicted and pushed the other pain to the far reaches of my mind. In the year after he left I lost about 35lbs. It’s no Biggest Loser result, but it made a massive difference to me. I’m now working on losing the other 59lbs I need to lose by making semi-regular trips to the gym for the first time ever. I hate it. I feel like a whale among salmon. And it hurts. I mean really hurts. The first time I finished the 1 hour 20 minute workout set by my instructor, I fell down the stairs because my quads had no idea they were attached to my body. If you’ve seen the scene in Run Fat Boy Run following the spin class you’ll have a fairly accurate image of what happened.
There are people who work out at my gym who don’t seem to sweat. I am not one of them. In fact, I question whether they are actually human, and indeed if there’s any point to them being there at all. There are others who wear full faces of makeup and turn up in kit like it’s a fashion parade: illuminous yellow, tight fitting tops, clashing pink skin-tight leggings and blinding orange trainers. All designed (so far as I can tell) to draw attention to pert butts and boobs which are alarmingly, all too obviously, on display.
I know, I know, I sound bitter and jealous. That’s because I am. I want what they’ve achieved. I worry that my aging limbs and bingo wings are beyond redemption. My stretch marks are definitely here to stay. These psychedelic women have something I will never be able to attain. But that isn’t going to stop me trying. I outwardly loathe everything about these invariably tanned and toned gym bunnies; I also secretly love them for motivating me. While their ponytails swing rhythmically from side to side as they jog, my hair resembles that of a newborn baby’s, fresh from the womb, clinging to me with layers of sweaty gunk, and my entire body is dripping with equal amounts of fairly whiffy liquids. I make no apologies for the analogy - it’s accurate. I can see what I look like, because for some sadistic reason gyms have mirrored walls.
However, endorphins are incredible things. Slowly I am getting stronger, faster and more determined. I have faith that I’ll get there. I maintain the grumpy teenager attitude to packing my kit; I still resemble a whale, and I certainly look more like a beetroot than a fashion model during and after my session. I complain regularly to my far too smiley trainer that she’s the devil incarnate. But I’ve ordered some highlighter-pink trainers. Just don’t tell anyone.
