Episode Three – A Heady Brew
I’ve learned a valuable life lesson since the last Fat Bloke Diary, and it’s this;
Never undertake a serious session on your exercise bike after quaffing half a bottle
of Shiraz.
Even though it was a particularly nice Chilean, and was very reasonably priced, it
almost totally failed to complement the steak & ale pie and chips that it accompanied.
But it did bring on the expected mild state of euphoria, and put me in just the right
mood for leaping aboard my trusty metal steed and pedalling with great gusto for
around five minutes. Which was just about the length of time it took me to realise
that something wasn’t right.
I know there will be super-fit types reading this who can see it coming a mile away,
but it was a huge surprise to me. Apparently alcohol raises your heart rate. I never
expected my pulse to race that high. Heck, I didn’t even know that it could get that
high without my chest exploding, and even I know that for a man as big as me it isn’t
good.
I slowed down. I breathed deeply. I thought happy thoughts. I thought naughty thoughts,
which were nothing to do with the bike; it was just the wine leading me astray. However,
nothing brought my pulse rate down sufficiently. I had to quit after just a measly
three kilometres of my evening’s ride to nowhere. I felt light-headed and my clothes
were drenched with perspiration, something that doesn’t usually happen for at least
another couple of kilometres. It was obvious that there would be no more cycling
tonight. There was only one thing for it; the rest of the bottle would have to be
punished for the evil that it perpetrated against me. And so, to my slight shame,
I demolished it all.
Now even someone as ignorant in the ways of well-being as myself knows that alcohol
is highly calorific. Not only that but it also has the unwanted side-effect of bringing
on the dreaded Late Night Munchies, and it’s a ‘well-known fact’ that all calories
consumed after midnight count double, just like away goals. So that drunken cheese
on toast binge in the wee small hours will have a bad influence on the waistline.
And probably the smoke detector too.
My minor dietary malfunction got me thinking; why do we drink? A night out at the
pub is one thing, with its inherent social aspect. For right or wrong it’s almost
expected in this country – or in Tallinn if it’s a Stag night. But drinking at home
is something completely different, another kettle of cod-psychology completely. It
can be symptomatic of much worse, deeply rooted problems. Addiction and depression
are words that nobody likes to hear, even less when they’re being said about the
listener. So I’d better stop right there, because I’m starting to scare myself. Let’s
just say that the drink is getting in the way of the exercise.
The weekend’s booze-count consisted of the aforementioned bottle of wine, a fair
few beers and a couple of decent tumblers of an exceedingly palatable single malt.
Far too much, by the Government’s – or even any sensible person’s – standards. I
don’t think this is the ‘five a day’ that they are suggesting.
Oh dear. Reading that bit back I suddenly feel like Bridget Jones! And that’s not
a phrase that I ever thought I’d find myself typing, for so many reasons.
On a happier note, despite this pleasant (at the time) liquid setback I’m surprised
to find that I can feel a difference in myself already. Weight-wise there’s not much
change yet, but my breathing is deeper and easier, I’m sleeping better, I’m snoring
less (so I’m told), and the million day-to-day problems and irritations at work don’t
seem to wind me up quite as quickly as before. Except for the guy with a permanent
case of the sniffles who sits near me in the office, snuffling and snorting all day.
But I suspect that even Mother Teresa would probably be taking an axe to him before
the working week was through.
So the generally good start is beginning to pay dividends. I suspect that I’d see
even greater improvements if I moderated my liquid and solid intake a little also.
But that, as they say, is another challenge for another day.
© 2008 Shaun Finnie