Monday, September 28
Something’s wrong with me.
It’s 3pm and all I can think about is how I want to do more exercise.
Apparently the hour of hell this morning, spent repenting for my sins, wasn’t enough.
All I want to do is go for a walk. So, I shall.
8.30pm: I find myself cast on the floor.
I want to get up, but I can’t.
There is no strength left in my arms and my legs have seized.
I wish there was a travelator in my abode to transport me to my bed.
Which I wish was a futon on the floor so I did not have to try and stand up to get into it.
Tuesday, September 29
6am: Two strange things have happened – 1: I managed to get into bed. 2: I have woken in the same position I went to sleep in. And, despite the early hour, I feel awake and full of beans.
6.01am: Attempt to roll over (key word: attempt). I resemble a beached sea lion, flopping about while making strange noises trying to find a comfortable position.
Failing in that endeavour, I try to extract myself from the comfort of my bed.
Am concerned flatmates may think I’m being attacked by an intruder such are the noises I am making.
6pm: Beans disappeared around 11am, yet I have somehow made it through the day and, amazingly, was actually productive.
However, I am completely and utterly knackered (possibly because it’s taking every bit of energy I have to move). All I want is to spend some bonding time with the couch.
7pm: It feels like the couch is hugging me – it has clearly also missed my presence.
9.15pm: Apparently I’ve been unconscious for two hours.
I desperately need my bed and am once again lamenting the lack of travelator.
I don’t think I can walk to my room, so I contemplate crawling.
Then I remember we had people over for dinner (which I accidentally slept through … woopsydoodle) and crawling past them probably wouldn’t be appropriate.
Wednesday, September 30
2.12am: Have just done an excellent impression of a demented meerkat after being absolutely convinced I was late for my training session and it’s actually 9am.
This is not how I’d hoped to start my day.
7.30am: I literally just rolled off the rowing machine because my legs couldn’t get me to a standing position.
I’m lying flat on my back and Haylee’s asked if she needs to find me a bucket.
I have lost the ability to speak, but manage to shake my head in a `no’ fashion.
Training buddy Leea is smashing it out of the park – she did the Spring Challenge on Saturday and has big blisters on her hands, so I will not complain.
But internalising my pain is leading to my eyes rolling back in my head and some random noises coming from my mouth.
It’s super attractive.
8am: Leea and I attempt to high five each other, except we are lying on our stomachs and cannot lift our arms to the normal ‘high five’ position, so we do a side-swipe five instead.
We’ve just managed to do something neither of us have ever attempted before: plyometric push-ups.
It requires a push up and then – eventually – lifting yourself up to clap. Several times.
While we’ve yet to master the actual clap, we both got a bit of air time … and neither of us faceplanted.
6pm: At Frontrunner where we are given a little lesson on footwear by the lovely Paul.
I’m relieved to know I’m not the only one who has, traditionally, picked footwear based on what the eye is drawn to.
Turns out this is not how we should pick footwear.
Paul says the life of a shoe for “an average runner” is about six months.
I ask what an “average runner” is.
This is a person who runs about 8km three times a week.
I, therefore, am not an average runner.
I think this means my shoes should last WAY longer given I largely use them to walk in.
Paul says walking can be harder on shoes because when you’re running you’re “in flight” more … I do not know how Paul runs, but I firmly believe this is not how anyone would describe my running style.
The right footwear, he says, can actually help prevent injuries given for those “average runners” there can be biomechanical issues … particularly if you pick your shoes ‘cos they’re pretty.
Some of my fellow Revivers went through the shoe-fitting process (I felt bad for them having to do one-legged squat-type movements while their feet were being watched because I saw some of them being put through their paces this morning) which also involved a bit of analysis of their running style on the treadmill, resulting in fancy, new fit-for-purpose shoes.
Given Haylee has managed to talk me into entering a 10km “run” next month (note to self: stop agreeing to things while you’re still half asleep) and my (pretty) shoes have well and truly passed the six-month mark, I think I will be revisiting the good people at Frontrunner in the very near future.
Thursday, October 1
5.15pm: Despite a particularly bad start to the day, I feel ridonculously good.
My energy levels seem almost back to normal.
Yesterday’s visit to the gym appears to have actually relieved the soreness and my will power is strong.
I have resolutely ignored a block AND box of chocolates sitting on a desk behind me while I have tucked into a plate full of delicious and healthy treats kindly prepared for me by a lovely colleague.
Also, a message from Haylee saying she put herself through our programme and almost needed a bucket herself made me feel less like a wimp.
Saturday, October 4
8.45am: I find myself in a swimming pool, wearing flippers and holding on to foam barbells, trying desperately to stay afloat during my first ever Aqua Fit/Mix class.
It was all going ok until we were told to lie on our backs and make our way from one end of the pool to the other.
That was do-able.
But as soon as instructor Elena, a fellow Reviver, told us to add in arm movements it went pear-shaped.
I do not remember it being this hard trying not to sink when I was a kid (which is, incidentally, the last time I was in a public swimming pool).
A mermaid I am not and any hopes I had of being a synchronised swimmer have been well and truly dashed.
But, not only did I not drown, I actually had a lot of fun (except for when the arch of my foot cramped … that wasn’t even remotely enjoyable).
10am: I remember this feeling. That complete and utter exhaustion that comes from swimming (or, in my case, attempting not to sink). It’s lovely.
Sunday, October 5
11.30am: Training buddy Leea and I have just made it to the Queenstown Hill summit.
We got as far as the Basket of Dreams and decided we had enough gas in the tank to keep going, despite the nasty wind and horrible rain.
It’s the first time either of us have got to the proper top – while standing there I thought about the very first time I did this walk.
That was five years ago and I was absolutely certain I was going to collapse and someone was going to have to carry me down.
This time around I was able to actually hold a conversation most of the way up.
Could it be the torture on the rowing machine is paying off?