A rant about the foolishness of fitness.  From the point of view of a very unfit gentleman.  Not me, obviously.  A friend.

FIT TO BURST

My blood would have boiled out my ears if I wasn’t up past my shoulders in cold water.

Children under six, women twice my weight and octogenarians – every single one of them was a more accomplished swimmer than me.  Up and down the bloody pool, never needing to feign an old rugby injury by furtively rubbing their knee after the third length. 

Not that I needed to, obviously.

Let’s be clear – it’s not as if I’m dramatically unfit.  Actually I am, but being a good few inches past six feet I carry the fat well, and a stocky build means everyone assumes I go to a gym.  Which I do – Jim’s a friend who works in PR and I go to meet him in the pub most Tuesdays.

I used to jog a couple of years ago.  I told everyone (and still do) that I used to run every day until I hurt my knee – yes, even imaginary injuries are recurring.  The sad truth is that I took up jogging for a month until the hangovers got in the way.  While undertaking this near super-human trial worthy of a modern day Hercules, I’d regularly brag how that very morning I’d jogged for over 15 minutes without stopping once.

I’m not entirely sure why, now I’m in my early thirties I’m so anti-exercise.  I certainly felt better for a sub-quarter hour slog through the local dog-shit stained park for those few weeks. There were even moments when I considered running a marathon, although these were only when I was in a pub, drunk.

It’s only now as a worldly-wise 31 year old I appreciate the universal truth ahead of my time – exercise is bollocks. 

Everyone I know who goes to a gym, hates it.  None of them seem to look or feel healthier for it.  Most can’t even be bothered to go; as far as I’m concerned, convincing yourself there’s a benefit to circuit training once a month is on a par with Holocaust denial.

So why do people insist on paying a gym membership they barely use?  Because in this day and age where preservation of self-image is paramount, there would be nothing else to talk about.  They either want to join a gym, they want to change gyms, they don’t go to the gym enough, or they want a personal trainer, they want to change personal trainers, oh and how much do you pay for your personal trainer?

God forbid they’re married to somebody who shares their pseudo-gym fetish.  Turn down any invite to their dinner parties immediately.

Of course this sort of thinking contradicts the stark reality that I spent this morning snorting 20 different flavours of piss up my nose at the local baths, pretending I swam to an Olympian standard every morning so I can be in this gang I detest so violently.

“Big night last night?” the toothless and pruned pensioner enquired as he completed his 40th length of the morning, noticing my bloodshot stare and my brow furrowed by the strain of the recurring knee injury.

“No,” I’d lied, “it’s my knee. Hurt it playing rugby.”

Thank god it wasn’t my back.  I put that out at Taekwondo last week.