Friday, we cycled. Or at least attempted to cycle up a bloody big hill. And I mean a big hill. The sort of hill that, if it wasn't hidden by trees and meanders in the road up it, would be screaming "don't even attempt this" before we started. But we got up it. Not necessarily on top of the bikes all the way, but we did get up it with a modicum of dignity. We were both tired, both had had a long week, so we shortened the ride down and tried again the day after. Up the bloody big hill again, and on through some very pretty hillside lanes (yes, even Surrey has pretty bits, and boy were they crowded with blokes in lycra) to a lovely pub lunch at the Scarlett Arms in Walliswood, then on across the heaths and home. Not always a happy ride, but certainly a lovely one.
And on Sunday I ran. My first 10k for erm possibly years, and one performed entirely on a treadmill in the gym (as one of the 1000000 runners in the Human Race). It hurt, it really hurt, but I came in at 1hr 10mins in the end: not bad for an unfit old type. The Human Race gave me a distance counter for my runs, with a neat little dongle that downloads all my pavement-pounding onto an online log. It's an advert for Nike, but quite a useful one for the simple fee of staggering around for an hour (my previous running bribes have included beer, cider, t-shirts and medals). The only problem is the pledge section: I couldn't enter a running goal on the site without putting in a corresponding pledge for what I would do if I failed to meet that goal. So, if you see someone running a 10k after christmas and dressed as a giant rubber duck, it may just be me (but only if I can't run and log a 10k of less than 55 minutes).
On the food front, the Simons continue. No new ones this time, but I can now cook both the roast chicken (having memorised the oven temperatures: 240 and 190) and sauce bernaise recipes from memory. This is a good thing: if I can remember enough recipes, then I can compile a menu from what's available in the shops (without taking the book) rather than what's written on my shopping list. Which given there are beasties like guinea fowl in the freezer, has got to be a very good thing indeed.
Showing posts with label exercise. Show all posts
Showing posts with label exercise. Show all posts
Monday, 1 September 2008
Monday, 25 August 2008
A long slow descent and a Simon (Spinach Dumplings, p200)
An active bank holiday this. But first, the news from the scales... 6 days as follows: 177, 177, 176, 176, 175, 175. Yes, really. It would be nice if this series could continue... And exercise: two bike rides (33 miles and 34 miles, rides 4 and 2 from the OS book for Sussex etc). One fitness test: 14.33 for 1.5 miles, 28 press-ups, 30 sit-ups and a faintly pathetic number of floor pull-ups (with a retest every month from now) and a bootcamp circuit (just getting the hang of medicineball press-ups, but only just: my arms gave out on them tonight, as did S's). And a lovely little (4-6 miles?) walk in the country. Hwsgo, despite my worries about his fitness for the bike rides, surprised me enormously by not only being fit but also dashing away from me most of the way round. Although we were both terrible hill-crawlers on the first ride, by the second ride we were improving, and Hwsgo at least seems to have his grimp sorted now. I've now threatened to go to spinning classes (static bikes) until I can catch him on a hill again. Erm, I mean at all.
Foodwise, there has been a Simon, but no picture (too tired to face either the stairs or the hunt for the digital camera). Spinach Dumplings: a mix of blanched spinach and cheese, pepped up with nutmeg and pepper then cooled, formed into balls and boiled in a pan. Hwsgo loved them, but I don't think I'd actively try to cook them again, especially if the choice was between them and Parmesan Fritters. Worth noting though is the optimal ball size: inch-wide balls cooked a little too fast leaving quite dry balls; 2.5 inches was too big, with not-quite-cooked middles; 1.5 inch balls were just right, crisp without being dry and cooked through with a good crunchy shell. Oh, and coating the balls in lots and lots of flour helped a lot too.
A cheesecake also happened. And has been left behind by Hwsgo in an attempt to even up our weight loss distribution. I'd say that I could resist, but I can't. Never have been able to resist a good home-cooked carrot cake, and am not about to start resisting now. The good side is that the cake won't last much longer. The bad side is that I will have single-forkedly eaten it.
Onwards...
Foodwise, there has been a Simon, but no picture (too tired to face either the stairs or the hunt for the digital camera). Spinach Dumplings: a mix of blanched spinach and cheese, pepped up with nutmeg and pepper then cooled, formed into balls and boiled in a pan. Hwsgo loved them, but I don't think I'd actively try to cook them again, especially if the choice was between them and Parmesan Fritters. Worth noting though is the optimal ball size: inch-wide balls cooked a little too fast leaving quite dry balls; 2.5 inches was too big, with not-quite-cooked middles; 1.5 inch balls were just right, crisp without being dry and cooked through with a good crunchy shell. Oh, and coating the balls in lots and lots of flour helped a lot too.
A cheesecake also happened. And has been left behind by Hwsgo in an attempt to even up our weight loss distribution. I'd say that I could resist, but I can't. Never have been able to resist a good home-cooked carrot cake, and am not about to start resisting now. The good side is that the cake won't last much longer. The bad side is that I will have single-forkedly eaten it.
Onwards...
Tuesday, 19 August 2008
Dismay
This is so unfair. I haven't eaten chips, pies, chocolate or ice-cream, I've been to the gym, I've eaten sensibly (and believe me, plain flavoured healthy crisps are so sensible they're calorifically in dark brown lace-ups), and yet I've still put on weight. 176.8 yesterday, 177.4 today. Ah well, I'm sure it's one of those glitch things.
The good news balancing this unexpected attack of the sugar-plum elephants is that I fitted into some more of my old clothes. I have a pile in the bottom of my wardrobe, of things that I like but can't fit into. Or rather, that I liked: several items have been consigned to the Oxfam pile as soon as I can see how wrong they look. But my work shirts are good though: I bought these exactly a year ago in Edinburgh, was a bit too big for them when I got them home (they're an old-fashioned size 14, i.e. somewhat smaller than the 14s of today), but today they worked, give or take a little bust button strain. So something must be going right.
And meanwhile, today's the day when the serious exercise starts: S and I have our first session with Nick the personal trainer tonight. I may have problems walking tomorrow...
The good news balancing this unexpected attack of the sugar-plum elephants is that I fitted into some more of my old clothes. I have a pile in the bottom of my wardrobe, of things that I like but can't fit into. Or rather, that I liked: several items have been consigned to the Oxfam pile as soon as I can see how wrong they look. But my work shirts are good though: I bought these exactly a year ago in Edinburgh, was a bit too big for them when I got them home (they're an old-fashioned size 14, i.e. somewhat smaller than the 14s of today), but today they worked, give or take a little bust button strain. So something must be going right.
And meanwhile, today's the day when the serious exercise starts: S and I have our first session with Nick the personal trainer tonight. I may have problems walking tomorrow...
Wednesday, 13 August 2008
Training dip
S and I are both in quite an interesting training dip. Over a week of going to gym and getting on with it, only getting tired during the exercise itself, and we finally got round to being tired before the exercise started. We'd both pulled long days at work yesterday, but it seemed a bit more than that (at least to me). Many years ago I worked with someone who put themselves through Canadian forces training whenever they needed to get fit quickly. Apparently they started out okay, felt like hell for the first fortnight then were okay. And in a smaller way, I think this may be happening to us (the feeling like hell bit before we're okay). It's almost a fortnight since we started, and this is usually the point at which I start to give up on the new routine. I'd always put this down to some sort of mental resistance: the point beyond which it became difficult to sustain enthusiasm, but maybe it has a simpler root. Right now we're both a bit tired, so we did a simple set, and I'm currently vegging out on the sofa, but tomorrow it starts again. Big time: we're booked into a boot camp session with an ex-marine PTI. I think I may write the number of a local taxi firm on my arm before we go, just in case we need help getting home.
Oh, and the food slipped a bit. A late night, being a bit tired: I've seen a little too much of the "Snack Time" machine in the last 24 hours. And I went to the supermarket to stock up on veg and found myself almost desperate for chocolate, sugar and white bread. But I resisted and headed the urge off with sweetcorn cobs and multipacks of low-fat crisps. So. Back on the wagon and another evening without carbohydrates or sugar, and yogurt and fruit for dessert. It's worth it, just to see the scales going down every day. Or at least, possibly more realistically, not going up.
Oh, and the food slipped a bit. A late night, being a bit tired: I've seen a little too much of the "Snack Time" machine in the last 24 hours. And I went to the supermarket to stock up on veg and found myself almost desperate for chocolate, sugar and white bread. But I resisted and headed the urge off with sweetcorn cobs and multipacks of low-fat crisps. So. Back on the wagon and another evening without carbohydrates or sugar, and yogurt and fruit for dessert. It's worth it, just to see the scales going down every day. Or at least, possibly more realistically, not going up.
Tuesday, 12 August 2008
The fat lady gyms
Since my holiday (just over a week ago now) in summary: weights look something like this: 179.8, 180.0, 179.2, 178.6, 177.0, 176.4. Training looks something like this: powerplate almost every day, with 10 minutes of 10-minute miles on the treadmill, interspersed with walking or cycling every other day. Food: breakfast special k, lunchtime sandwiches, evening meat and veg, with packs of low-calorie crisps inbetween; not a single chocolate bar or sugary snack (although I do have to declare one scottish sweet). Health: fairly stable, one mild food reaction (100mph brain again) and the odd sniffle, with the powerplate situps doing an excellent job of keeping my bronchi clear (very similar effect to the percussion my parents used to keep my chest clear as a child) inbetween.
And that sorted, on to today's post. Gym etiquette with large ladies. S and I were on the powerplates last night (I think we may be becoming a feature on them...) when a rather large lady was led by a personal trainer onto a neighbouring machine. And while she was fighting some sit-ups, she glanced over and gave me that look. If you've got fit and hung around gyms for long enough, you know that look: a swirl of defiance and uncertainty, a subconscious division of the gym into me over here and you over there. If you've also got unfit and restarted training at gyms enough times, you also know that feeling: you've paid your money, you've bought your kit, you've walked through the doors, but somehow that extra layer of fat removes any sense of belonging in or to said gym, often to the point where it's easier to give up going rather than wait for the toned bodies to finish with the machines that you need. It's a sad fact that most people's mental image of female gym attenders is that they are all fit, thin, toned and that somehow they've always been that way and just need to go to the gym to top off their natural healthiness (I'll skip the other image of musclebound hulks for now). It’s up there with ‘thin people have always been thin’ and its dispiriting caveat ‘so I can’t even hope to join them’. And in that moment, with that stare, I realised that I didn’t know how to start to break down the divide. I thought about walking past and whispering “I was a size 18 two months ago” into her ear, but that seems patronising. I racked my brain for anything positive that I could do to help break the going-to-the-gym barrier down from fighting ones own body and attitude at the same time, to just fighting the fat, but there was nothing I could say or do at the time. So I just smiled and got back on with my own torture. I guess this is partly my own social inadequacy, partly my deepset belief that difficult things can become easier (not easy, note, but easier) if they’re done within a community, partly a comment on the powers of perception over reality, especially in matters social, but that moment did make me think for a while. And writing about it has helped: next time I see someone fighting themself and looking uncomfortable in the gym, I’ll smile and say ‘Hi’ before I get on with addressing my current inability to do a full wide-arm pressup properly. It takes a great deal of courage and determination for a fat person to walk into the gym: the very least that everyone else can do is acknowledge them as one of our own.
And that sorted, on to today's post. Gym etiquette with large ladies. S and I were on the powerplates last night (I think we may be becoming a feature on them...) when a rather large lady was led by a personal trainer onto a neighbouring machine. And while she was fighting some sit-ups, she glanced over and gave me that look. If you've got fit and hung around gyms for long enough, you know that look: a swirl of defiance and uncertainty, a subconscious division of the gym into me over here and you over there. If you've also got unfit and restarted training at gyms enough times, you also know that feeling: you've paid your money, you've bought your kit, you've walked through the doors, but somehow that extra layer of fat removes any sense of belonging in or to said gym, often to the point where it's easier to give up going rather than wait for the toned bodies to finish with the machines that you need. It's a sad fact that most people's mental image of female gym attenders is that they are all fit, thin, toned and that somehow they've always been that way and just need to go to the gym to top off their natural healthiness (I'll skip the other image of musclebound hulks for now). It’s up there with ‘thin people have always been thin’ and its dispiriting caveat ‘so I can’t even hope to join them’. And in that moment, with that stare, I realised that I didn’t know how to start to break down the divide. I thought about walking past and whispering “I was a size 18 two months ago” into her ear, but that seems patronising. I racked my brain for anything positive that I could do to help break the going-to-the-gym barrier down from fighting ones own body and attitude at the same time, to just fighting the fat, but there was nothing I could say or do at the time. So I just smiled and got back on with my own torture. I guess this is partly my own social inadequacy, partly my deepset belief that difficult things can become easier (not easy, note, but easier) if they’re done within a community, partly a comment on the powers of perception over reality, especially in matters social, but that moment did make me think for a while. And writing about it has helped: next time I see someone fighting themself and looking uncomfortable in the gym, I’ll smile and say ‘Hi’ before I get on with addressing my current inability to do a full wide-arm pressup properly. It takes a great deal of courage and determination for a fat person to walk into the gym: the very least that everyone else can do is acknowledge them as one of our own.
Friday, 25 July 2008
Don't Cough
Ouch. But in a good way. S and I tried out the vibrating plates machines (PowerPlates) at the gym two days ago (why does it always hurt 2 days later; why not on the day or 1 day later? Why always 2?). 15 minutes of fairly gentle exercise whilst whichever part was in contact with the plate vibrated at 30 or 35 hz (the 50hz setting is for massage not exercise. Which we didn't know on the day that we decided to play with the machines, set them to 50hz+high, lay on them then watched S - who is quite tiny - bouncing bodily up and down on the plate). The exercises didn't seem at all strenuous on the day. Apart from the press-ups, which I've always hated with a passion even when I could do them with one arm. And the sit-ups seemed particularly useless at the time. Then nothing. And nothing for a day again. But today - ouch. One cough, and I'm doubled up, muttering about the lower half of my 6-pack.
But no matter: if it's having an effect, then I'm going again. And again. Starting with today. Bzzzzzz.
But no matter: if it's having an effect, then I'm going again. And again. Starting with today. Bzzzzzz.
Wednesday, 4 June 2008
On bike, off bike...
After a day of being irritatingly smug about cycling instead of using my car, I've fallen off it. Don't try to brake, undo a cleat (the thing that firmly attaches a shoe to a pedal) and round a corner at the same time: it doesn't work. And it's surprisingly difficult to undo said cleat whilst lying down. But I've cycled everywhere today (station and back, meeting and back, shopping and back), I feel good about it and I'm going to do it all over again tomorrow. Hopefully taking a longer route home too: I'll start by trying to get 10 miles in, and work my way up from there.
Saturday, 15 March 2008
Starting to think fit again
Being fit isn't about timed, forced exercise: going to the gym, cycling for x minutes per day etc. We do timed exercise to get fit; to be fit, we need to live that way.
Okay, I'm not making much sense here so I'll try again. Every so often, I try to get fit; I restrict my diet, I go to the gym, I make progress until some event happens that disrupts all the carefully laid plans, and suddenly I'm carrying an extra stone of weight and don't have enough energy to get to the gym.
Being fit is thinking things like "why don't I cycle over to the airport to check the baggage allowance" (not as heroic as it sounds; I live only a couple of miles away from it) instead of paying a queen's ransom for the parking (Queen's ransom: the country might not want its king back, but a king might be prepared to pay a great deal for the right queen, and it would be a brave chancellor to stop him emptying all the coffers). I've caught myself doing this a few times over the past couple of weeks; things like "hmm, I got up early, shall I cycle the long route to work" and "I'll walk it instead". That way, I think, lies true happiness...
Okay, I'm not making much sense here so I'll try again. Every so often, I try to get fit; I restrict my diet, I go to the gym, I make progress until some event happens that disrupts all the carefully laid plans, and suddenly I'm carrying an extra stone of weight and don't have enough energy to get to the gym.
Being fit is thinking things like "why don't I cycle over to the airport to check the baggage allowance" (not as heroic as it sounds; I live only a couple of miles away from it) instead of paying a queen's ransom for the parking (Queen's ransom: the country might not want its king back, but a king might be prepared to pay a great deal for the right queen, and it would be a brave chancellor to stop him emptying all the coffers). I've caught myself doing this a few times over the past couple of weeks; things like "hmm, I got up early, shall I cycle the long route to work" and "I'll walk it instead". That way, I think, lies true happiness...
Thursday, 13 March 2008
Running again
Well, not so much running as advanced jogging, but I did turn up at my local running club for training yesterday.
There are running clubs everywhere; some are athletics clubs that primarily cater for people who want to run round in circles on nice dogpoo free tracks, leap over hurdles, throw pointy sticks and jump into sandpits; others are road running clubs for people who think that running 6+ miles every Wednesday is a good idea. Most clubs meet at 7pm on Wednesday. I don't know why; maybe because it's a few days away from the weekend races, maybe just because it's traditional, like Quakers meeting at 11am so they can all get home in time for lunch; most clubs also have other training days, but I'll get to that in a minute.
Anyways, my local club is mixed. Pointy sticks, sandpits, small kids whizzing in every direction and folks doing that impressively graceful I-couldn't-do-that-without-falling-over thing over hurdles. And instead of heading out onto the pavement, the road running group were out on the track as well.
Let me tell you about running times. No, you can't run away now, I've already started... Road runners (the ones who run miles on pavements rather than metres round and round a track) measure their speed by the number of minutes that they take to run a mile. A good steady plodder will run a 10-minute mile; fast runners are usually around a 5 minute mile, some people are slower (12 minute miles for the terminally unfit, i.e. me at the moment) and most people are somewhere inbetween. Most clubs have several groups going out; the main group is usually 8-minute mileing, with some slower and faster groups as appropriate. Now I knew I was in trouble when I asked the first road racer who arrived (apparently they're always late so I should fit in beautifully on that count) about the group speeds... and with a totally, take-it-to-the-bank (although that is becoming something less than a good metaphor these days) face, he told me the fast ones (including the other only girl there) were 5-minutes and the slow ones like him ran at 7 minute pace. 7! What the... I *dream* of 7-minute miles, of one day being able to run fast enough to feel like I'm floating rather than fighting to keep moving. 7!
Which is how I ended up being overtaken. Lots. Often. My first track session was... on a 400m track (400m = 1/4 mile), 3 laps slowly to warm up. Then 6 faster laps with a 50-second stop between each lap. Then the trainer (70 years old, so still a spring chicken in running terms) taking a good hard look at me and leaving me to run slowly steadily and continously until everyone else was ready to go home (and I'd done 4 1/2 miles in total rather than the 6 that was planned). Well, that went well. Not. But I'm going back. I can take humiliation, and there is no pride where getting healthy is concerned. And at least if the other b*ggers are running that much faster than me, I've always got something to aim at. Even if it is at the finishing line before I've got halfway.
And anyways, I've got out of the midweek (Monday) training session because it clashes with my needlework class. Although I strongly suspect that I might be going for a run before class anyways. I will get fit, I will get fit... meanwhile, if you're reading this and not totally put off yet, most clubs are listed on the Runners World site.
There are running clubs everywhere; some are athletics clubs that primarily cater for people who want to run round in circles on nice dogpoo free tracks, leap over hurdles, throw pointy sticks and jump into sandpits; others are road running clubs for people who think that running 6+ miles every Wednesday is a good idea. Most clubs meet at 7pm on Wednesday. I don't know why; maybe because it's a few days away from the weekend races, maybe just because it's traditional, like Quakers meeting at 11am so they can all get home in time for lunch; most clubs also have other training days, but I'll get to that in a minute.
Anyways, my local club is mixed. Pointy sticks, sandpits, small kids whizzing in every direction and folks doing that impressively graceful I-couldn't-do-that-without-falling-over thing over hurdles. And instead of heading out onto the pavement, the road running group were out on the track as well.
Let me tell you about running times. No, you can't run away now, I've already started... Road runners (the ones who run miles on pavements rather than metres round and round a track) measure their speed by the number of minutes that they take to run a mile. A good steady plodder will run a 10-minute mile; fast runners are usually around a 5 minute mile, some people are slower (12 minute miles for the terminally unfit, i.e. me at the moment) and most people are somewhere inbetween. Most clubs have several groups going out; the main group is usually 8-minute mileing, with some slower and faster groups as appropriate. Now I knew I was in trouble when I asked the first road racer who arrived (apparently they're always late so I should fit in beautifully on that count) about the group speeds... and with a totally, take-it-to-the-bank (although that is becoming something less than a good metaphor these days) face, he told me the fast ones (including the other only girl there) were 5-minutes and the slow ones like him ran at 7 minute pace. 7! What the... I *dream* of 7-minute miles, of one day being able to run fast enough to feel like I'm floating rather than fighting to keep moving. 7!
Which is how I ended up being overtaken. Lots. Often. My first track session was... on a 400m track (400m = 1/4 mile), 3 laps slowly to warm up. Then 6 faster laps with a 50-second stop between each lap. Then the trainer (70 years old, so still a spring chicken in running terms) taking a good hard look at me and leaving me to run slowly steadily and continously until everyone else was ready to go home (and I'd done 4 1/2 miles in total rather than the 6 that was planned). Well, that went well. Not. But I'm going back. I can take humiliation, and there is no pride where getting healthy is concerned. And at least if the other b*ggers are running that much faster than me, I've always got something to aim at. Even if it is at the finishing line before I've got halfway.
And anyways, I've got out of the midweek (Monday) training session because it clashes with my needlework class. Although I strongly suspect that I might be going for a run before class anyways. I will get fit, I will get fit... meanwhile, if you're reading this and not totally put off yet, most clubs are listed on the Runners World site.
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