discipline

Rain plops on the roof during the night. The alarm wakes me at 5:45. Puddles mirror the dawn sky. I slide the bike knicks up my calves and snug them to my thighs. A wife-beater completes the ensemble. I mudguard the Red Rocket: the Bureau predicts a rare January day of lashing squalls and Antarctic winds.

I pedal to the gym—sorry, leisure centre—to ride a stationary bike for 45 minutes. Ten of us brave the elements to get to the first 6:15 cycle class of the new year. James mikes up, turns up the beat and leads us on a gentle ride over a few hills with plenty of short sprints. At 6:56 we dismount, stretch, wipe down the bikes and disappear about our daily business.

    

For years I walked the Jack Russell past a local fitness centre and guffawed at people on treadmills watching televisions bolted to the wall above them. Although the Jack Russell gets a walk nearly every day, walking and cycling do nothing for the upper body. I swallowed my pride and bought a gym membership.

  

The discipline of regular gym attendance—forking out $75 a month gets me off my arse—works for me. The personal fitness program is not my thing. I’ll never pound the treadmill or simulate Nordic skiing. I don’t go near the weights room.

The group timetable is cause for breathless exhaustion. Tri-Class, Circuit and Cycle are all about sweating buckets and gasping for oxygen. Supa Sculpt and THT (tummy, hips and thighs) are no-bloke zones. My unyielding body won’t assume even the starting postures for Yoga or Body Balance.

If water was my medium—it isn’t—I could take the plunge and drown myself in Athletic Aqua or Aqua Power. My pacifism precludes Body Attack and Body Combat. My body is not limber enough for Body Step, Cardio Beat or Zumba, nor wrinkled enough for Move and Groove, Lite Pace or Young at Heart.

My chosen regime demands exertion in two Body Pump sessions a week—repeated exercise sets with light weights to develop endurance, body tone and change body shape. Unfortunately, opening the fridge door has greater effect on my body shape. The endurance allows me to replicate this action repeatedly and the skin-sack that keeps my insides in is as tight as a tick.

Cycle is a poor substitute for being on the road, but if the weather is shite, it’s a passable alternative. Pilates and Stretch are two classes I’ve yet to broach but the time is nigh.

The other aspect of gym life that blows my skirts up is the music. If gym-pop is not a genre in its own right, it should be.  

  

Rock on.