Survival of the fittest

I'm not a very sporty person. I hated sport at school, always tried to be goalkeeper in hockey so I wouldn't have too much running around to do and loathed gym with a passion. I mean, what is the point of climbing up ropes or springing over a horse? I was mediocre in tennis and netball and didn't mind a bit of trampolining, but that was the extent of my sportiness. I can't even swim or ride a bike, not having been taught to as a child. 

As an adult, I avoided sport like the plague. I avoided doing it AND watching it. Whereas most people go mad over Wimbledon fortnight (which takes place a short tram-ride from where I Iive), I cannot bear it and get annoyed with the endless coverage on TV. I might watch the occasional football match if it has some historic significance, but even that leaves me with half an eye on the TV doing something else. I hate the Olympic coverage and, as to why footballers earn vast sums of money just to kick a ball about, escapes me (and not always perfectly into the goal in my view, given that is what they are paid to do).

Thus it may surprise you to know that in my seventies I have taken up going to the gym. By accident I might add, but nevertheless. Just before the arrival of Covid, I had some blood tests that showed I was too close to being diabetic. Not quite over the threshold to require medication, but nevertheless close, unless I diverted it. My doctor advised me to join the gym where I would get 12 free sessions, courtesy of the National Health Service. This I duly did and found I actually liked the treadmills and bikes with their computer screens and analysis of my progress. After the 12 sessions, the statistics showed I had toned muscles, lost some fat, my bloods were showing a more acceptable glucose reading and I was no longer pre-diabetic.

Of course, the gym jumped on the opportunity to offer me a senior citizen membership. For something like £38 a month I had the choice of use of the gym equipment and swimming pool whenever I wanted, as well as hundreds of exercise classes a week. There is so much to choose from - pilates, yoga, keep fit, strength and stability, zumba, line dancing, body pump, group cycle class, weightlifting and much more.

Because of timing and parking restrictions near the gym, I have narrowed my classes down to three keep-fit classes a week. One on Monday which is relatively gentle and which I usually precede with an hour in the gym on equipment. The other two are back-to-back classes on a Wednesday. I call these my manic classes. They are advertised as for the 'Over 60s', but i think the Wednesday instructor has not got the memo and thinks we are 'Over 16s'. I call them my Manic classes. Another lady calls them her survival classes. I think you can deduce from that how exhausting those classes are. The Instructor is a lovely lady of Caribbean origin and she always gets cheers of approval when she enters the class. She plays beaty music such as Bob Marley, Michael Jackson or Soul Sisters and we have to keep up the intensity for about 45 minutes. I love her classes as she is so full of enthusiasm and cheers us on.  We leave the class dripping in sweat. On the odd occasion that she is on holiday in the Caribbean, her replacements are quite tame in comparison. The level of mania/survival seems to intensify with each week. This week, I finished the class almost on all fours and woke the following day aching all over.

I have quite surprised at how 'sporty' I have become, even ensuring I have the right clothes and shoes. As people often say, "if you don't use it, you lose it". Maybe I'll make the Olympics yet.