It came as some surprise, having recently returned from my annual winter “health break” to the Costa del Sol, to be informed by my doctor that I had crossed the line from “pre-diabetic” to “diabetic”. I had been labelled pre-diabetic for so long that it had ceased to register. In a way, I figured, maybe we’re all pre-diabetic.
“So what does that actually mean?” I asked.
“Well, you could lose your feet,” said my doctor.
“Lose them? Where?” I demanded.
“They may have to be removed.” Oh.
“But how will I get to the pub?” I cried.
“That,” said the doctor, leaning forward a little in his plastic chair, “may be part of the problem.”
Our eyes locked for a moment. He detests me, I thought; and yet, I was certain, he wants to be me.
“OK, you’ve worn me down,” I said. “What do I need to do?”
“The usual,” he replied. “Lose weight. Exercise more. Eat healthily. Drink less.”
I pondered these options, these four horsemen of the fuckoffalypse, as I trudged home on my beloved plates. Well, the last one’s not happening, I thought. I already take Mondays and Tuesdays off the sauce, which is tough enough (though does have the wonderful unintended consequence of making every Wednesday the “Best Wednesday Ever”).
And I eat fine. More or less. Apart from the odd Picnic. And I’m not talking here of the boiled egg on a blanket type. So I guess it has to be… Oh no. What? No. Please, no…
Time was you could rely on a weekly game of football or at least a kickabout with a mate to keep you in trim. Or a game of tennis, maybe, or even a dance. But there comes a point when the later life replacement for such activities – walking about for a bit looking at the trees – no longer cuts it in the staying healthy stakes. There was nothing for it, I was going to have to go to the gym.
The gym: the stench of sweat; hungry, boggle-eyed muscle men; dreadful remixes of once great dance tunes; the constant Hoovering. Halls lined with hi-tech instruments of torture, redolent of the L.A. of The Terminator, where the machines have taken over and all the pubs are rubble. Where is the humanity? Where is the bar?
But it was that or trying to get around on stumps.
So one Tuesday afternoon in March I padded down to my local gymnasium. On the way I passed a group enjoying pints outside a favourite pub in the pale spring sunshine, the wankers. Even their lager looked nice. I pressed on to Fusion Lifestyle Centre.
“I’m afraid our payment system is down at the moment,” said the lad at reception, “so I can let you have this session for free. It’s your lucky day.”
“Lucky? Lucky? I’m going to the gym, you monster,” I said and he waved me through the gate with a grin.
Inside, I imagined a hive of whirring and stamping and grunting but I was surprised to find most people simply lounging around on exercise machines, feet up, looking at their phones. Idiots. I tutted. I’d only been there a minute and I’d become a gym-tutter. I felt a surge of pride.
A toothless old woman in a FILA tracksuit approached me.
“Would you like to get a coffee later?” she said.
“No, thank you,” I said.
“You do know it’s singles afternoon.”
“I did not know that,” I replied. She seemed to want more from me. “Have you tried carving your number into a potato and rolling it into the men’s changing room?” I said. She looked at me for a moment.
“You shouldn’t really be here if you’re not single.”
I did some weights. I did some cardio. I did some lounging around on the machines looking at my phone. At one point I got on a cycling machine which allowed you to choose your own video journeys. I chose a 5k ride through the Dordogne which was delightful. I swore I could even hear the odd foreign cooing of the local wood pigeon, until I realised it was my own rattly breathing. But then I saw a group of people enjoying some beers outside a bar tabac, the bunch of branleurs. Even their lager looked nice. I switched to a Grand Canyon trail. No bars for a thousand miles, I figured. Still kept an eye out for one, mind.
And that was it. Now I’m a regular. I try not to think about it too much. Just get on with it. A regular hour. In. Out. Shake it all about. Then home for a lie down. It’s important to allow your body time to recover, I read. Advice I take very seriously indeed. Some people experience a rush of endorphins after the gym, I’m told. I experience a rush for the sofa.
“Have you lost a bit of weight, mate?” asked Dirty South, some while later.
“No,” I said, “I’ve simply redistributed my abdominal subcutaneous adipose tissues.”
“Glad I asked,” he said.
And this is quite possibly true. I’m more or less the same weight, but I just move better. And, I have to admit, feel better. I’ve strengthened my core, probably. I can once again pick up 10p pieces from the pavement. When a chum’s voting form fluttered to the floor at a beer festival, I was able to bend down and retrieve it for him in one smooth movement, instead of having to get down on all fours. It was quite a moment.
It almost made me consider going more than once a week. But, as with my salvaged feet, let’s go one step at a time. My only initial concern was avoiding singles afternoon and I asked about it on my way out from that first visit.
“Singles afternoon? We don’t have a singles afternoon,” I was told. “I take it you’ve met Maureen. It really was your lucky day.” Again with the grin.
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