The Running Man

I have joined a gym.

*** Canned Laughter ***

As I walked through the doors of the Putney branch of Virgin Active (the gravest example of a product not matching the expectations of the name), I was most surprised to see that I did not break out into a horrendous rash or even hives, and neither did I vanish into a puff of smoke. Evidently I am not allergic to the gym.

I started my induction with a few warm-ups before progressing on to the Power Plates, which were easy and fun, although I could not help but think that their primary function was as an accessory in a sex shop for blue whales.

Everything was progressing smoothly until I met what will surely be my nemesis, the Swiss Ball. I am not the most coordinated person at the best of times, but if you ask me to lie on my back and keep a large green inflatable ball the size of Greenland wedged firmly between my Ukrainian shot-putter thighs, before thrusting it away repeatedly, then you are simply asking for ridicule to happen. I promptly delivered, by releasing the ball mid-thrust and practically launching it at an unsuspecting girl working out on the other side of the room. That it shares its name with my nationality further adds insult to physical injury.

Having now rediscovered the forgotten joys of quantum physics, I was soon reacquainted with another bête noire from my school days: biology. There are certain parts of the Guyanese rainforest that remain undiscovered and untouched, with an abundance of crystalline waterfalls cascading handsomely into ragged rock pools within the lushest greenery known to man. Closer to home, however, I was proud and honoured to be able to reveal to the world a supremely fascinating and unique new ecosystem: the treadmill.

Overcoming my initial reluctance to indulge in the seemingly tedious and unimaginative act of running on the spot for an extended period of time, I soon settled into a steady rhythm and actually found myself thoroughly enjoying the experience.

Halfway between kilometres two and three, however, disaster struck. My lower intestine performed some cardiovascular exercise of its own and unkindly generated an uncontrollable and unavoidable urge to expel air from the southern ventilation unit. Fully conscious that the consequence of my actions might lead to a full-blown military evacuation and enforced quarantine zone for the whole of South-West London, yet at the same time unwilling to interrupt my triumphant march into the kingdom of exercise, I let rip.

What followed next was not for the faint-hearted, let alone the faint-nostrilled. In what can only be described as the cruellest coalition of evil forces since Hitler and Mussolini met at summer band camp, the circular motion of the rubber treadmill belt and the bulky frame of the machine conspired to keep the repugnant odour within my immediate airspace for longer than it takes to walk from Rome to Naples. I felt myself being teleported to the trenches of the Somme in July 1917, crawling through the cold mud in No Man's Land with nothing but a broken gasmask to protect me from the incessant shelling of Zyklon B and mustard gas. Senseless horror...

It is a simple fact that I would not have been able to run 5 metres, let alone the 5 kilometres I managed before breakfast this morning without the assistance of music. I owe every single second spent pounding the oversized elastic band into sweaty submission to cheerful ditties such as Cannibal Corpse's 'Meathook Sodomy', Slayer's 'Dead Skin Mask' or Immortal's 'Impale The Virgin'. This surely must be the reason thrash metal was created.

My other self-motivational tactic involved mentally removing from my stomach any food consumed during the day using the machine's calorie counter reading. Thus, yesterday's lunch of king prawns was being despatched from my metabolism at a rate of one every 24 seconds, as explained by the following scientific formula:

Total Pack Calorie Count 102 / Total Prawns 34 = 3 Calories / Prawn, or Calprawns.

Since I ran for a total of 156 prawns, but only ate 34, I can now consider myself 122 prawns to the good. Equally, I will still be running into the 27th century if I ever have a kebab for lunch.

It is only the beginning, and the road ahead is indeed fraught with lazy danger, but for now, a new day has dawned...