My newest pain/Coming again?

Turns out circuits, in itself, wasn't so bad.

Whats bad is doing it with that strange sense of pride whispering in your ear.

"Look they can do it, surely YOU can keep up too.". The voice insists. It's rhetorical, it knows you're going to.

Even if it means your lungs feel like your breathing sulphurous fire, your muscles are slowly turning into acid filled sacks of uselessness, and your heart is beating so fast it's just a quivering, wreck like an over pressurised bottle within your chest, vibrating, waiting to explode.

Poetic licence...maybe.

10 minutes of jogging, side-stepping, hoping warm up. Barked at me by the Gestapo like instructor.

Schnell.

5 minutes goes by, my pace has slowed, not by intention. I'm breathing hard. Very hard. Harder than I have for some time. I set off too fast.

The time ends and I can have a much needed reprieve. It doesn't last long.

Oh god, am I this un-fit?

Schnell.

We're led like through the stretches by the Judas Goat instructor, I'm sweating heavily still. We haven't started yet.

Oh god, I can barely touch my knees, nevermind my fucking toes!

What follows is 36 stations of acute hell, 60 seconds, change, 60 seconds, change, 60 seconds...all the time, Herr Instructor is there "Faster! HARDER! Last 10 seconds, PUSH!". Reverse sits up, burpess (fucking burpees! I still hate them), neider press, skipping, punch bag (not so bad), dips, press ups, reverse dips up amongst others. "HARDER!"

Now I know why the kit is there, what it's for, how to use it, the knowledge offers no comfort.

I have all the co-ordination of a drunk village idiot. Flapping my useless arms around, the way you see girls run in anime films, jumping things with all the poise and rigidity of a jelly fish. I'm too tired to give a fuck what I look like, but I notice the others I'm going round with are leaping with gazelle like style and vigour over anything in their paths.

They power through the 60 seconds of press ups, non-stop. I'm struggling not top head butt the gym floor, leave a bloody/sweaty mess for the net person to drip on. My eyes sting from the sweat.

I manage it, mostly, I take 30 seconds off some. Let my heart calm down. My clothes are soaked with sweat. I look around, too tired for embarrassment, I see others in a similar state, a small relief.

I've grab a mouthful of drink as I go past it every now and then.

Schnell.

We jog gently for a cool down, well, I don't. I squat by the wall, too tired to feel emotion, waves of dizziness hitting me. All I can feel is pain in my arms, legs and lungs. I feel too tired to remark on it when my friends asks how I am.

We stretch again. I go dizzy again.

We do the last stretch. Everyone claps.

I feel like it's for me. They know how much it hurt, what I'd been through, the pain I will feel tomorrow.

We put the de-mystified kit away between us all.

My legs are heavy, but I'm starting to feel again...I'm feeling...okay? No. Better than okay. To my own surprise, I'm actually starting to feel good. This doesn't make any sense to me, but I role with it.

"So coming next time?", I'm feeling quite good. "Certainly will."

The next day, a little stiffness, but otherwise fine. The day after that, fine.

Schnell.

Teh Fear/WTF?!?!

I park the car.

Too close to the hedge; I'm going to get moistened by it tomorrow as I tiredly and resignedly get into the car for another day of work.

Fumble at the front door. Bollocks, wrong key. Try again.

Success!

I enter, pleased with this small victory over Union locks and jumbled keys.

I poop the kettle on. Go upstairs to see if my more sloth-like house mate has managed to drag her arse out of the bed today. Like some ponderously lumbering precursor to man, rejected by god, half human, half boulder.

Her granite like fingers grasping ineffectually at the tiny white envelopes.

Except, it isn't a a tiny white envelope.

Someone has delivered a package. Inside a Tesco carrier bag I find, wrapped in 80 sheets of the Oxford Mail for some reason, a package. Labelled simply "Gav".

Nothing else.

With trepidation I begin to open this mystery package, expecting a bomb. No. Not a bomb. Anthrax maybe? There's something hard inside, and presumably a note from the sender. With mild fear of a covering of tiny white spores or fiery death, I remove the last layer.

Someone has sent me a copy of Paulo Coelho's "The Alchemist". There is no note. I go through the tattered layers of newpaper I removed. Still no note.

I open the cover. Top of the date "September 2002" is written...

...below it "I love this -it does wonders for the soul...I hope you enjoy it too!"

Something else unreadable "...of love", it's not "lots", too many letters, their flowing script lookes like "hasses". That doesn't make any sense...

"Simone xx"

All the same hand writing as the date.

Who the hell sent this!? I don't know anyone called Simone! Mild fear sets in. This was delivered by hand. I ask the rock-woman if she saw who delivered it. No.

I thumb through it, someone has underlined some of the text with a pencil. Is this for my benefit? Is there some kind of deeper message I should be taking from this? Does who ever sent this think I need some kind of help?

Unless they are a cardiologist, I'm pretty much fine thanks...

Fucking. Wierd.

I honestly have no idea who has done this. None at all. Why not leave a note? Why not say who it's from? Is there supposed to be some kind of underlying significance to the underlined text? Or is it just coincidental?

And mostly...

Why, dear reader, didn't they buy me a fucking new copy...

More exercise related paranoia tomorrow, right now, I'm too busy worrying about someone watching me...

A man can change.

An email from an old friend, not forgotten, just not thought about in a while.

"How's things with you? Any goss for me???

Fancy joining me for my next half marathon??!!!"

I lock my work station (much like a train station, this is where I stop, the name strikes me as suddenly apt). I head into the lab to check on my assay, thinking "Why would I want to do a half marathon?".

No colour development. Shit. It's not worked. What have I done wrong? I realise there shouldn't be any colour developed yet, and jovially berate myself for being a spacktard.

I do what needs doing, solve someones Excel related issues. I'm a walking help file apparently, more "user friendly" than a click on a menu.

Back to the work station for a break.

"Why wouldn't I want to do a half marathon?" - hold on. Since when did that question change? Come to think of it why wouldn't I want to do a full marathon?

a) Your hugely un-fit.
b) You smoke, and have done for the past 12 years.
c) You've done no exercise in the past 11 years.
d) You'll probably fail.
e) You've never been able to run a long distance, even at high school 400 meters seems to long to achieve.

Gradually the idea grows. Like once of the cancers I'm working on. A neoplastic lesion, growing slowly, at first un-noticed, then suddenly a bump, casually noticed one day. Slowly getting larger and more obvious.

A friend who plays Rugby for Oxford Uni sends a text the next day. Fancy going to circuits mate?

Fuck it. Why not? - My psychology is changing without my knowledge....

I sit at home. Anxiety building. What the hell is this place going to be like anyway? What can I expect? Everyone I asked says: "it's bollocking hard work mate, but you'll soon get used to it after a couple of sessions".

I get in the car, drag myself there. Still half thinking about formulating an excuse and turning round. I park the car. I don't even know where the hell this place is. Maybe I'll just go. I find it. Shit.

"£3.50 please for non-members", I hand over the money, like I do this all the time.

A girls looks at me. I make eye contact. She's knows I don't belong here. Another bloody tourist. I take a seat and wait for my friend to turn up. Time passes. I can see "things" being set up. Their design gives no clue as to what I should expect to my innocent eyes.

Others come. Regulars. Joking, talking about having just run here, as their car ran out of petrol, they had to run the Petrol station (where the petrol stops...) and back to the car before they got here.

"not far, only about a couple of miles either way" they say. I don't belong here. I'm genuinely knackered running up the stairs at home.

Maybe I'll just go.

Friend arrives. I bravado up. Can't seem like a pussy in front of my mate now can I.

We go through to the hall, awaiting the start. My heart is already pounding from the anxiety. We'll go round in groups of 4 people. Me and 3 Uni level rugby mates. Shit. Gotta keep up though.

A man can change...?