One percent inspiration

Joining a new gym is like starting  a new job. You wear clean socks, and are treated extra nicely. In return, you feel the need to make a good impression, which usually means pretending to be someone else entirely. You can’t find things, and don’t like to ask, particularly if your questions have to be in German.

This sense of pampered disorientation leaves you unsure whether you’re having fun or not. One day perhaps, I will feel at home here. People will wink and give me the thumbs-up and grin and shout “Yo!”, just like they did to Antonietta, the willowy lady who showed me round this evening. But the odds are stacked against me. Unlike her, I would have looked incongruous on a Milanese catwalk. Alas, my membership of the Beautiful People Club ran out some time ago, and will not be renewed, no matter how many litres of sweat are offered up. It’s true that the first few beads of perspiration appeared during my introduction to the graceful lady in question, but the real salty torrent didn’t begin until I was 10 minutes into my spontaneous cardio buffet: 37 minutes on the elliptical, swiftly followed by 15 on a static bike and a surprising 20 on the treadmill. So 72 minutes in all, which is a good start.

Despite the freshman awkwardness, my first few steps on this new planet were a reasonable success. With the regal look of a corporate HQ, this is more of a lifestyle and wellness palace than the sort of British high street gym I’ve been used to. There weren’t many growling, grunting, scowling middle-aged blokes in vests that strained to contain their pecs — which is what  I associate with Fitness First in Tilehurst. None, in fact. Instead, we have willowy ladies reading fashion mags while they dreamily pedal on static bikes or tiptoe delicately on the elliptical. Seems like a pointless waste of time. They would get a better workout by taking a leisurely stroll up the lakeside path, accessible just yards away, through the vast, open windows.

But I’m in no position to be cynical. The sweat running off me was gratifying, but it was evidence not just of the effort expended, but of my current, horribly low level of fitness. To get down to my ‘healthy weight’, which I’ve not been anywhere near since I stopped smoking, 16 years ago, I have to shed 20 percent of my bodyweight. I don’t expect to get down to that level (experience-based realism rather than negativity), but it’s an interesting new way of visualising the target, and a change from the usual painful descent through the 220-200 pound band, a point at which I start to struggle. My customary, but less than intelligent, response to not being able to get much below 200 pounds is to turn to drink. I can report that a 4 day eating and drinking extravaganza is not the answer to weight loss issues.

But anyway. Here we go again, though at least this time I have a shimmering Lake Zurich to gaze at, and the possibility of Antonietta wafting past.

It could be worse.