No run today, but I did go for a spot of Pilates at the local school.
It’s a deceptively gentle activity. Supine ballet. Here I lie on my
floor mat, waggling an ankle, or drawing arcs in the air with my arms,
while hypnotic New Age music oozes from a portable CD player.
At the end of it, you tend to think: Is that it then?
But when you get up and walk away, you feel stretched and buoyant.
Pilates has two difficulties for me. One is trying to remember all
those things I should be doing simultaneously – feet apart a certain
distance, pointing this way, breathing at “30% capacity”, shoulders and
hips supporting the weight, understanding the notion of pelvic
centring… Let’s be honest boys, retaining all this data
simultaneously is not a man thing. Running the world puts quite enough
on our plate without having to remember pelvic centring principles.
Second, there’s the problem of following what we should be doing at any
one time. The instructor issues orders while I’m lying face down on the
floor, eyes clamped shut, floating one thousand miles above Planet Zog.
I’ve no idea where I’m really supposed to be. So I contort myself to
peer between my legs at the wall mirror. The distant reflection of the
instructor shows a reversed idea of where my body should be. And by the
time I’ve worked it out, we’re somewhere else.
But anyway, a good and noble thing to do, even if it was at the expense
of Coronation
Street.
