Hannah and I have joined a gym. This isn't a short-lived-New-Year's-resolution-type-thing, because we actually joined two days before New Year. It may be more of a recognise-you're-getting-old-thing, as all the food and drink I consumed over Christmas has betrayed me by turning itself into fat.
We didn't just join a gym. In a pleasingly ex-pat style we joined a
club.
Walnut Creek Health & Fitness Club, a short walk from the house, complete with its own pool, sauna, steam room, Jacuzzi, $0 joining fee and first month free with no commitments.
Despite the swanky surroundings, this place isn't messing about. "Pain is temporary, quitting lasts forever," says the banner that hangs behind reception. "Check CAN'T at the door," reads one in the gym. "Blood, sweat, and tears. If only it were that easy," proclaims another. Hmmm.
Part of the joining deal is an hour's fitness appraisal with one of the trainers, so yesterday I popped down and said hello to Kim. She was very short, which was useful as she assessed me to be six foot tall when looking up at the height chart. I then had to step up and down onto a platform for three minutes, have my pulse and blood pressure checked, and answer a long list of questions about my exercise, my aims (physical and mental!) and my family history. "My Dad's 77, and he still ice skates three times a week," I told her. "So one of your aims could be to get as fit as your father," Kim suggested. It's still hard to tell when Americans are mocking me.
The culmination of all this was a nifty computer program that calculates your "health age" and sets out your targets, then e-mails nagging reminders to you. Hannah's result had put her a year younger than her actual age, so I was desperate to top that. The moment of truth arrived and my body is apparently...37.
Thirty seven! That's three years older than I actually am! I'd already told Kim about Hannah's result. "Remember that this is your personal assessment, and you don't have to show it to your wife," she advised. Was it really that bad? The shock meant that I didn't hear much more of what she said, but left her office determined to shake off those extra years as quickly as possible.
My eye was caught by an interesting looking piece of equipment. It was a recumbent bike, but more importantly had a huge video screen attached to it. It turns out that it's part of the
Expresso Cardio System, where you can see yourself riding around virtual tracks as you pedal in the real world, which is a little bit like a Nintendo Wii. They also have one track that's around a space station. How could I resist?
After ten minutes I began wondering if the lack of oxygen wasn't just on the computer screen, and if the liquid gushing down my face was the tears I'd read about on the poster. But no, I seemed to be sweating from my hair. I didn't know you could sweat from your hair! Still, I pushed through the pain, and managed another five minutes before discovering that although quitting lasts forever it also has many immediate benefits.
I hobbled down to the steam room. These are segregated, with a full spa set up in both the men's and women's changing rooms. Perhaps I've been spoiled by our trip to the
hot springs, but single-sex nudity just seems a bit, you know, weird. Especially when there's an old man walking around wearing a white t-shirt and bottomless. When is that
ever acceptable? Yet even his presence couldn't detract from the warming comfort that sitting in a hot whirlpool bath brings to limbs pushed to their limits by 15 minutes of exercise. If this place offered a full bar service my lifetime membership would be guaranteed.
Where have the years gone?
Not sure what this is telling me, but that's not how I look. I don't even own any blue shorts.
