A spooky thing has happened to me this year. I have started to enjoy going to the gym.
It's a very weird sensation, but I now have to say I am actually turning into one of those mysterious creatures who "loves working out". As a serial non-workouter, whose idea of exercise was a swift sprint from the fridge to the sofa with a bottle of pinot gris in hand, this has been a revelation. What has happened to make this so?
Firstly, I decided after several months on crutches last summer that I was sick of sitting on my ass and I hired some motivation to work around all my injuries, in the form of Bede, my ass-kicking personal trainer. So I have to turn up because he is there and I am paying him. I also decided I wanted to be fit more than I wanted to be on the beach hidden in a sarong. I needed to choose between being covered in sweat at the gym or covered in clothes at the beach. A choice needed to be made and I got on with it.
It was hard, my body had not worked that hard ever, really. Bede built up the intensity gradually but there was no denying it. It. Was. Hard.
It still is, but I am now perversely loving the fact it's hard. I actually go in and do extra sessions. On my own. Self-motivated! Why? Because I realised a crucial thing. It's called a work out, not an easy out.
