This morning, struck by the sunshine and the bathroom scales’ most recent verdict, I decided to go for a run.
I used to go running at least once a week, which combined with playing football and reasonably regular visits to the gym, kept me in shape.
But the scales have been telling me something very different recently. I am currently just over a stone heavier than I was a year ago. I blame the event of my twenty-fourteenth year. And the fact I haven’t played ninety minutes since October. And I don’t go to the gym very often at all anymore. And Tesco giving me vouchers for my favourite biscuits all the time.
So this morning I decided to go for a run.
There is a short route from my flat which takes me a short way into Windsor Great Park and lets me run back towards the castle. It is scenic, and just over two miles. I would take this route when I was in a hurry, didn’t have time to exercise properly, or had eaten a big meal fairly recently. It is a 16/17 minute route, maybe 18 if I’m feeling sluggish.
When I’m fit.
This morning it took me 24 minutes. And I had to stop to catch my breath.
You have no idea how unhappy this makes me.
I now sort of understand why fat people do not exercise. It is a fucking god-awful experience when you are not fit. It is actually painful. Almost half a hour after getting home I was still wheezing.
The new regime starts here.
And I’m sorry Tesco, you can send me all the clubcard vouchers you like, but no more chocolate cookies for me.