Two weeks ago, I bought an exercise bike.
The reasons are complex, but to make a very long, very sad, very self-pitying story short, an incredibly attractive man told me to.
OK, so I can see I am actually going to need some context here. The man was a physiotherapist, firstly, and his incredible attractiveness came from the fact that when I started explaining my chronic pain, misery in exercising and frustration at having gone from being a person who does this:
to being a person who does this:
…after making a cup of tea after waking from twelve hours of sleep, he didn’t scoff as so many other health professionals have done in the past, but nodded, thoughtfully, and said, “Well of course you find it all hard. You’re unwell and no-one with this condition can exercise without pain.”
Honestly, I turned into one of those cartoon characters with hearts for eyes.
When he followed it up by telling me that even walking for fifteen minutes, sitting for two hours and walking fifteen minutes back was too much for my poor, pain-addled body, and I shouldn’t expect to be able to do the things I used to be able to do, it was only the thought that I am a grown-ass woman that prevented me from climbing into his lap and proposing. When he asked at the end of the session if I would “just try” doing some cycling on an exercise bike and some gentle yoga moves, I not only agreed to try but mentally plotted out a schedule in my head that had me returning in three weeks’ time ready for the Tokyo Olympics. If he believes in me, *I* believe in me.
So, long story short, I bought an exercise bike, and I built it, and I named it Copenhagen, and I looked at it for a week, afraid that if I got on it and I was in too much pain, I might not get on it again. And that would be a very expensive five minute cycle ride.
And then coronavirus struck, and we all got quarantined into our homes, and I’ve spent over a week in a room with the exercise bike, and now I’m so bored, I’ve done some cycling. On the bike. Every day.
EVERY. BLOODY. DAY.
Just to fill in some time in my CoronaQuaroutine. Cycling. Every day. Five minutes. And you know what?
I can do it now. The first day was torture. It was like being stabbed with knives. Day two was even worse. Days three and four I asked if the man really warranted the utter torture that was this exercise. (Yes, by the way, is the conclusion, but not for his own sake, but because he believed I was in pain and wanted to help me, and I’m going to give him the chance to try, damnit. I often feel beyond help. But it’s worth a go.)
Now, ten days in, I’m up to six minutes a day, and the stabby knife pain is only occurring in the last minute of cycling. And this experience has taught me two things.
#1. Cycling on a stationary bike is quite easy and pleasant. Watch a video to take your mind off what your legs are doing and the time verily flies past.
#2. The only way, apparently, to ever get me to do something I absolutely do not, under any circumstances, want to do is to get a nice man to empathise with me, then lock me in a room with said activity for an indefinite future with the threat of viral plague hanging over me. Fun times.
- Shagged, Married, Annoyed by Rosie and Chris Ramsey. I nearly died laughing yesterday evening listening to this podcast.
- Videocalling your friends. Catching up daily with the ol’ Dream Team at work, and the ol’ Besties out of work is keeping my spirits up. Just.
- Graze snacks for ‘healthy’ snacks. Probably not that healthy if you eat them all at once, but tasty. And varied, which helps with the aforementioned boredom.