Yes, Nelson, we all have our own journeys to travel. And mine started yesterday. On the treadmill.
It was not pretty. It was not glamorous. In fact, it was pretty nauseating. There was a bit of dry-heaving after the main show. I suspect Mandela may have had similar episodes during his stay on Robben Island.
Part of my anguish stemmed from being lulled into a false sense of confidence and plain eagerness. The chief culprits of misconception were 2 of the 3 beings closest to my heart – my husband and my daughter. Really.
We got the contraption on Monday. S gets it in the house, plugs it in and flips the switch. It’s Cool Runnings. A brief tutorial follows on timers, inclines, EMERGENCY MAGNET, km’s p/hr, etc., etc. “Hop on, give it a try!” He urges. “Mmmmm … not right now – just have to finish filing my pinky finger nail, but will definitely get up early tomorrow and do a session. I want to start fresh.” I try to reassure him.
Sussie gets home from school, hops straight on and does three 20 minute sets in quick succession. This from a child that cannot raise her rear from the couch to put a cleanly-licked peanut butter spoon in the sink – instead, it gets wedged between the chair seats – saved to lick on a rainy day!? In any event, this treadmill thingy does not look like it will be too difficult to master. There is hope.
S rushes in the door after work. On go the running shorts and a white T-shirt. I am starting with supper, but I can hear hum of the motor and a slow plodding noise emanating from the braai room. The noise speeds up … am I imagining it, or is floor vibrating slightly? Take a few steps to take a look round the corner. You see, as per the advice of successful treadmill owners, we have placed the machine in front of the TV – supposedly so that time will just fly while you are exercising AND viewing Toddlers ‘n Tiara’s.
Anyway, S is now running … teen ‘n stink spoed. It says 16kms p/hr on the counter. The walls are shaking. And he is sweating and doing a lot of heavy breathing. He is also looking incredibly sexy, even though he has chosen to wear black socks with his ASICS. But the shirt is off, and his muscles are actually rippling. His chest is taught and his nipples are erect. I kid you not. Admittedly (although never directly to him, else he is on me like a hound dog), he wears almost-40 extremely well. No beer boep, still has the majority of his hair, well-toned and really solid arse. No rolls, no fat – muscular legs and arms. Quite chiselled features. At this point, it may be of interest to mention that I am mid-cycle, i.e. ovulating – hence my sudden increase in dirty thoughts and desire for my husband. No. Really. I have that little knot in the pit of my stomach – but it is almost time for 7de Laan and the Thai curry is ready to be served. So I make a B-line back to the kitchen.
But I digress. Back to the treadmill … and me getting on it. Yes, this morning was my 2nd attempt; my 2nd 20 minute session. There was no sexy-ness, no rippling muscles. However, I did notice flapping fat rolls and pouring perspiration. And I think I managed a good 1.2km in the set -although I can’t be sure, as the sweat was streaming into my eye sockets and blurring my vision.
So, my walk to fitness is going to be a long one. Reality has set in, and I am certain that there will be no Rocky theme tune echoing in my red ears – just the thud of my own pulse.
I hope I don’t hit the wall tomorrow. Literally (treadmill is positioned against brick wall) and figuratively.