Friday, May 15, 2009

Run Fatboy Run


BMI 30.5
So there I am sat sitting there enjoying the baleful glare of the unfit and overweight. I haven’t been in a gym since I was seventeen dear God. And then it was only because Jane Jenkins, a pneumatic young lady, needed some support at the edge of the trampoline. How on earth has it come to all this
The major contributor was my premature death at the age of forty four. I haven’t really been as fit as I once was since that day. The day that my appendix burst and gave me peritonitis. The day when bits of me that shouldn’t; (fans of the semi colon should pause and admire for a half breath here) stopped and I had to have a hard reboot. An accomplice has been my lack of stern resolve.
Since coming out of hospital back then I have struggled to be as fit as I once was. Never a real racing snake mind you but I was able to walk upstairs without breathing heavily.
You may remember that I was trying to train a pair of daps to watch the television with me back in January.
Fellow mountaineers, I can tell you now that that was just the start of things. I subsequently went to my GP and enquired, knowing that these things go very slowly, about the referral scheme.
And so here we all are. Me and a bunch of fat blokes. Waiting. Waiting for the ‘Easyline’ trainer to turn up and put us through our paces. They nearly put me down for the ‘Over 50 Easyline’ you know but I was swift to point out that the form said 49 and ¾. Not 50. Oh no.
The fat bloke opposite seems to be managing about ten a minute and so it is easy to whup his arse. I press a little harder and do eleven. I hope his tears will obscure his perception of how pink I have become.
Afterwards I have to have a cheese pasty to recover in time for tea. In the shower later I also see that I still have a twelve pack. Oh well, Rome wasn’t sacked in a day. I guess I shall just have to go back next week and make some more of the fat boys cry………

3 comments:

john.g. said...

Twelve pack? Lager or Bitter?

DaveM said...

A gym???? you have a great Dawes bike and some of the best scenery, long light nights, there lies the answer. Mount up and get those legs turning.

Mike said...

The presence of a semi-colon in a sentence about splilt [sic] guts could be very upsetting to the squeamish.

The thought of admiring your semi-colon is not an apealling one in that context.

Mike.