I went back. See here if you don’t know what I’m talking about.
As I walked in I told myself, “it’s the turntable on the RIGHT, Marty. Right to enter, left to exit.”
Once again smashed into the left turntable, arms and bag flopping like dead fish. This time there were assistants, how kind, to point out the obvious, “it’s the other one”. Thanks guys. Do you help the sun rise too? Where would we all be without you? Please remind me to keep breathing.
Once I made it through the turntable, I dropped my student card, banged my bag again, and then lifted myself up with a fixed pout, a look that says I KILL TURTLES, and a fiery determination to sweat like Hulk.
My beloved treadmills were once again unavailable, and even the airwalkeryskythings had a queue. So I ventured over to the steppy-uppy-machine. It’s like walking up really high steps, while holding onto handlebars.
IT HURTS LIKE BULLETS. IN MAH THIGHS. PAIN STRIFE AND CIVIL WAR. IN MAH THIGHS.
After about ten minutes of that, and considering suicide, I decided to roll off the steppy-uppy-machine and onto the cycling bicycle with feet thing.
I could barely walk. The transition was literally two metres distance, but my legs wobbled as if I’d downed a bottle of Vodka.
The cycling went really well, strangely enough – maybe I should be considered for the Tour de France.
From these two exercises I have deduced wisely that
(1) I have the upper thigh muscles of a leaf
(2) I have nice-ish calf muscles
(3) I don’t really know anything about biology or ergonomics. Maybe I have good elbow muscles.
(4) My bum and feet slip off bikes which are nailed to the ground. I should never attempt to ride a real bike as I will probably slip and die.
Some time during all of this I met up with my future digsmate, who seems pretty cool, and gyms 5 times a week. He’s offered to help me out at the gym and we gave each other a sweaty hug to celebrate this momentous moment. HAH comraderie!
After a really long time of attacking my poor legs, I decided it was time. I crawled over to the handlebar-with-weights-attached machine. It’s a horizontal stick that you pull and push, and it activates a pulley which pulls up weights. In theory.
In practice, I stand there holding this stupid stick, going DFMJW9DMNFVHNEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-breath-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-breath-GNIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII-death.
And practically nothing moves, except the veins on my neck. My shoulders and upper arm muscles just curl up into little balls and cry so, so hard. I lasted about two minutes.
And yes, dammit, I did check how many weights I was lifting. TWO. Out of 7000000++++.
It was even worse than when I went on the skywalker-thing, and I was panting on Level 1, when I peered over at my neighbour who was chin-chilling at Level 11. My soul crumbled just a little.
However, I am inspired, full of endorphins, and committed to getting fit! My next session will be on Saturday, where I suspect I will find all the true loyal Gym Bunnies, in their natural habitat. Because who the heck else would give up their Saturday afternoon for a sesh at the gym, bru.