This month I finally start training. Even though we have tentatively settled on Anzac Day 2010 as our time to trek, a casual glance in the mirror tells me that even nineteen months may not be enough to get into shape. I begin with a mental assessment of my current state (classic procrastination - one of my strong suits). I am 48 years old, and at least ten kilos overweight. I am probably at my lowest level of fitness ever (apart from, perhaps, immediately prior to giving birth to each of my offspring). On the plus side, I did give up sm0king over ten years ago, but unfortunately I replaced it with an addiction to nicotine chewing gum (preferably mint flavoured but I'll settle for citrus in a pinch). I also have chronic headaches from prior neck damage, problems with low blood sugar, a bladder the size of a deformed pea (no pun intended), a dodgy calf muscle in my left leg and severely flat feet (although they might be a plus with all those Kokodian cliffs).
Not altogether encouraged by this mental assessment, I decide to be more pro-active. So I begin by drawing up a chart with my current weight (82.5 kilos [gulp], and as I have one of those you-beaut scales that also gives extra info, I learn that 43.6% of me is fat and 36.6% is liquid. This does not seem a good ratio. Clearly I need to drink more). Quickly moving on, I name today 'day one' using a nice font that I shade artistically with red and black pencils. This immediately gives me a sense of achievement. I now feel motivated.
I clamber on the exercise bike but only last six minutes and twenty-three seconds before deciding that perhaps the treadmill is more suited to my current level of fitness. Unfortunately this turns out to be stultifyingly boring so instead I exercise by moving it into my bedroom in front of the spare television. To finish up, I decide to run up and down the front stairs ten times. On the ninth upward run, with my vision rapidly blurring with exhaustion, I trip over and strike myself across the bridge of my nose on the concrete edge of step number six.
With tears streaming from my eyes, blood dribbling from my nose and obscenities spewing from my mouth, I stagger back into the house. Now I'll need to add a nose job onto my wish list.