Did I mention I’d been to the gym today?

I’m a gym bunny. No, perhaps not a bunny. I am something less bouncy and more rotund. All the eagerness but none of the grace. A hedgehog perhaps or a badger. Yes, that’s me, I am a gym badger.

I’ve been very good of late and have re-jigged my day to get to the gym first thing in the morning, thus setting myself up for a day of healthy smugness. It has been a strange and unexpected consequence of my gym-badger regime that I seem to feel the need to drop it into conversations through-out the day. “Morning Maggie”, I say to the lovely office manager on my arrival at work, “I’ve just been to the gym.” “Sorry I’m late”, declare I on my eventual arrival at my first meeting, “I’ve been to the gym.” “Yes of course I’ll move my car Officer but could I just mention…”

Find more of Peter Fortune's Ramblings here.

I can attempt to show off outside of the gym because it is so far removed from the reality of my being in it. I am not sure who first conceived of the notion of surrounding gym walls with mirrors but it certainly was not somebody at the beginning of their health transformation. The gargantuan effort to get there for 6AM and subsequent pride in pulling on my gym socks is ruined when I see the corpulent wheezing mess staring back at me from the mirror. As I struggle to hold on to the bars of the cross-trainer (how my body is supposed to move in four directions simultaneously is beyond me) I notice the tee-shirt I bought in a pack of five from Sports Direct doesn’t quite cover the roundness of my newly middle-aged paunch. With each ungraceful stride the bottom of the tee-shirt and the top of my shorts move further apart leaving a fleshy and unhealthy stripe of shame exposed to the world. I can see it reflected back in the mirror, winking at me as my legs chop backwards and forwards and my arms, well, god only knows what my arms are doing. Each ‘last’ pint, every cheeky chow mein and those oh-so-good-but-naughty packets of Haribo stolen from my children’s sweet jar taunt me, as I slowly try and sweat off the guilt. I attempt to tug the bottom of my tee-shirt down to cover the shame but the removal of one arm from the blasted machine sends the rest of my body into a tangled mess. As limbs are flung out to try and grab onto something, anything, I’d imagine I look rather like an octopus tumbling from monkey-bars. A fat octopus.

After five minutes, this is just the warm-up after-all, I stumble from the contraption and tuck my tee-shirt into my shorts. The result of which forces my shorts dangerously high considering my decision on whether or not to wear gym pants.

But now I am warm and ready to launch into my programme. The programme has been designed by Pete, the excellent personal trainer at the gym. Pete the PT was the person responsible for my induction to the gym and still keeps a kind and watchful eye on me during my visits. I still remember our first meeting: “What would you like to achieve at the gym.” “Easy!” said I. “Ultimately I’d like to be a cross between Arnold Schwarzenegger and Brad Pitt.” His face sank into a well-rehearsed and patient smile. “I don’t want to get too big” I earnestly explain, “just well-toned and shapely.” “That’s great!” he almost believably says whilst staring at the five-and-a half-foot delusional bowling ball in front of him. “Let’s have a look at your cardio.”

He deposited me on a rowing machine and watched as I struggled to strap myself in. It took ages to wedge my feet into the Velcro-straps and, as I reached to the floor to find my locker key which had fallen out of my pocket, I am convinced he thought I was looking for a life jacket. His finger whizzed over the control panel which designs the exercise programme you are to follow and within seconds I was off and rowing in the Oxford v Cambridge Boat race. I was confident I could deliver a fairly strong performance. After all, the race lasts for what, seventeen minutes? Pete the PT had only set the thing for five so I was pretty sure I could keep up. Old what’s-his-face Cracknell had been in the Cambridge boat this year and he is six years older than me! I started strong and I comfortably kept pace with the actual crews for the first 10-20 seconds. When Pete the PT scooped my collapsed and exhausted body from the floor 115 seconds later I thought it best to reset my physical objectives. Perhaps I should make them SMART? As I attempted to breathe without sounding like a faulty exhaust-pipe, Pete the PT discussed other training options and threw water over me as one would a beached and embarrassed whale.

The result of that reassessment is the programme I am now following and you know what, I am enjoying it! The belly isn’t going down as fast as I would like and my tee-shirts still don’t fit, but overall it’s fun. Yeah, I said fun! Sure, there are guys there I wouldn’t want my wife to meet and sometimes it feels like I was at the back of certain biological queues, but I feel a great deal better for going.

So, tee-shirt tucked into my shorts, I sit down at the chest press and wonder about upping the weight from last time. I grip the bars and think positive thoughts. I’ve done the hard work just getting here and I am a proud badger. Just as I am about to commit I see Pete the PT looking at me. “Well done mate” he smiles, “Looking good!”

I love Pete.