The Fat Bloke Diaries
Episode Fourteen – Stepping Out
There are some things that I never thought I’d find myself saying. “Well OK, if you really want me to wear the Batman outfit… again”, “That Blair chap did so much for world peace” or “I’m really enjoying this exercise malarkey”. Now two of these statements still remain firmly unuttered – Hell is still more than slightly toasty – but the third? Well amazing as it seems to me, let alone everyone who’s ever come into contact with me, I’m finding that the static cycling, walking, stepping etc is actually turning out to be quite fun.
And even more astoundingly, I can’t wait to get to the point where I can call myself a runner. The advice given to all novice runners is to start off by walking for two minutes, followed by running one minute. Repeat this half a dozen times or so per session and slowly build up from there.
This guidance sounds great in theory, but the problem is that I can’t run for a whole minute. Even if I could, I wouldn’t be able to repeat this astonishing feat a mere two minutes later. For me it would be walk two minutes, run twenty seconds, stop. Call ambulance. Put head between knees while attempting to breathe again. Try not to die while waiting for the red mist to clear from vision. Do not repeat, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred pounds.
Since when did running become so difficult? I used to do it all the time when I was a kid. I’m pretty certain that I could still recite my six times table today; I was good at that when I was nine as well. Why is running so different? It seems obvious that I’m just out of practice. That’s what I tried to convince myself when the time came for my first run.
There’s an old proverb which says that a journey of a thousand miles starts with
a single step. Preferably onto an aeroplane. I didn’t have an aircraft handy, so
with my trusty partner alongside I set out on foot, new running shoes glistening
in the early morning sun like a beckoning beacon for every footpad and vagabond in
the area. ‘Rich man with rich trainers’, they scream. ‘Who knows what else he’s got
hidden about his person?’ Any mugger would be disappointed though. They’d be better
off going for my beloved; at least she has some gold fillings. My shoes are the most
expensive thing about me. They sit nicely below my five pound (that’s monetary value,
not weight) jogging bottoms. And, moving further up my body, there’s none of this
ultra micro fibre easy wicking latest generation synthetic material for me. I’m a
‘real man’, remember? So a thick cotton t-
I should probably point out here that I live in an area that’s notorious for subsidence
due to its history of coal mining. While I didn’t notice any buildings collapsing
into newly-
I’m proud to say that I managed to get through it in one piece though – she, of course,
wasn’t even breathing hard – and I even kind of enjoyed it. A bit. But I mostly enjoyed
the long soak in my bath afterwards. While I was in there (please don’t picture it)
I got to thinking. What if I start enjoying it to the point of actually looking forwards
to a thrice-
A friend of mine – let’s call her Kathy as that’s her name – goes for some form of strenuous exercise every day. Swimming, a run, hanging out at the gym, or perhaps, on a good day, she’ll have a go at all of these. A day doesn’t go by without she pushes herself to the limit.
Now some people will be reading this and thinking ‘Good for her, that girl shows real dedication’. But what if I change that paragraph a little so that it reads slightly differently?
A friend of mine – let’s call him Dave as that’s his name – goes for some form of alcoholic refreshment every day. Vodka, a beer, hanging out at the wine bar, or perhaps, on a bad day, he’ll have a go at all of these. A day doesn’t go by without he pushes himself over the limit.
Would those same people who applauded Kathy view Dave as an alcoholic? It’s something to consider. I wonder if I’ll end up as a Kathy or a Dave?
© 2009 Shaun Finnie