Back in the Saddle

There’s an old saying about a healthy mind needing a healthy body.  I have lots of great writing ideas for this new year but if the maxim’s true then I’ll be in no fit state to write them if I’m consistently moaning to myself about how unfit I feel. So, like so many others at this time of year, I’ve started to do something about it, and one of the first things is to refuse to spend all day locked in my office. Of course I need to write as many saleable stories and articles as I can but I also need to get out of the house every day, to get in touch with nature. Life makes you feel alive and I won’t see too much of that locked in my garret all the time.

That was fine in theory but the hurricane force winds we’ve had around here this week soon sent me scuttling back indoors. I could hardly stand upright, let alone lift my head to appreciate the glory of the natural world around me. And anyway most if it was flying past at 80mph including what I’m convinced was Yorkshire’s first flying squirrel.

But I still badly needed a workout so I decided to blow the dust off my monstrous old exercise bike. Sadly ‘blowing’ didn’t do the job very well and I had to resort to my K-Tel Filth-Magnet duster glove and Ronco MuckBuster rechargeable mini-hoover. And even before I put those to use I had to clear away all the shoes that had accumulated around it. Honestly, it was astounding how some hiking boots, a couple of pairs of trainers and the Beloved’s one and only pair of heels have managed to become a magnet for what appears to be the entire Timpsons end-of range stock. Size 10. So what should have been a cycling workout began with some serious arm and shoulder action until eventually I could see something vaguely cycle-shaped underneath the dust bunnies. And so, Dear reader, I mounted it.

My muscles must have very long memories as they soon fell into the old familiar up-down, up-down rhythm. Sadly my lungs had remembered what to do as well. They quickly resumed their old wheezing and gasping as my chest got tighter and my forehead wetter, and the atmosphere in the room underwent a swift transformation from chilly Yorkshire midwinter to tropical steam bath.

Some people swear by motivational music to keep them focussed and maintain a steady rhythm while exercising. I listened to a reading of Sarah Waters’ award-winning novel ‘The Night Watch’, a tale of illicit liaisons and sexual adventure in 1940’s London. It wasn’t exactly Heather Small asking me what I’d done today to make me feel proud, but I already knew the answer to that one: ‘I got on this damned bike, Heather!'

It was the first time I’d been aboard my trusty tubular steed for about a year, so I was quite pleased to get through half an hour of non-stop leg pumping without needing to pause at any point for a spot of death. The way that I do it, it’s actually more than just exercise; it combines vigorous massage as well as my thighs pummel my belly with every stroke. I like the fact that I’m battering my tubbiness into submission from all sides.

It would be good at this point to tell you the distance that I virtually travelled in that sweat-soaked thirty minutes but unfortunately the bike has been sat unused for so long that its batteries have packed in. Well that’s what I thought had happened as the screen has been blank for some months now, but about an hour after I’d finished punishing it the bike began beeping, I’ve no idea why. Perhaps there was supposed to be an accompanying message on the display but it didn’t have enough electrical charge to show it? Or maybe each beep was a little scream of agony at my huge bulk being perched on its tiny saddle? Whatever, yanking the batteries soon shut it up.

If I had to guess at how far I’d pedalled I’d say about 50 miles, something like that? The way that my legs felt the day after I think it must have been at least that distance.

So that was my training for the day. I think I deserve a treat. So I’ll ask you to please click to another screen pronto as the pile of leftover Christmas chocolates is calling. Things might get messy.


© Shaun Finnie 2012