Lee Randall: Resolving to Train Mind and Body

06-Jan-2010

ONE good thing about being a columnist is that everything is material. One bad thing about being a columnist is that, just occasionally, nothing happens. That's especially problematic when the column is themed, as this one is. But, my darlings, you are always on my mind, even during the holiday fortnight, in which I singularly failed to go back on my diet plan, quaffed bottles of Champagne left over from my birthday and went entire days without crossing my flat's threshold.

Yet sometime in between bidding a weepy adieu to the Doctor and giggling my hellos to Nurse Jackie, it hit me that I had nothing to tell you, apart from stating for the record that yes, I still have those pounds to lose to get back to my self-selected target weight, but no, I haven't quite mustered the motivation to tackle this project, despite being hugely unhappy about allowing my resolve to slip. (What a change from this time last year!).

So when I saw a notice in this very newspaper that Pure Gym was opening a branch here in Edinburgh – and that it was near my flat and would be open 24 hours a day, seven days a week – I came over all Baldrick and devised a cunning plan.

Yes, dear readers, I joined up. The gal who violently rejects New Year's resolutions because they're a tedious cliché joined a gym on 31 December.

I told a friend, noting, in passing, that I'd toured the facilities and found them pretty basic, without a plethora of bells and whistles, but ideal for my purposes. She snorted. "Like you know so much about gyms?!"

Erm, actually, I do know a great deal about gyms, I replied. But what a shock it was, realising that a friend I've palled around with for six years hadn't a clue that in my former life back in the States I spent years training religiously in a Hoboken gym mainly favoured by body builders – and firemen!

(On the way back from checking out those facilities for the first time I had to nip into my local grocer's frozen food aisle, as I'd become dangerously overheated. Is it any wonder I went to the gym so often, with all that eye candy on offer?). On top of that, there's the 16 years I spent writing about health, nutrition and fitness for women's magazines. I've styled fitness shoots, made up "try this at home" workouts, covered the National Aerobics championships (you so don't want to know), and been in the audience of the Ms Olympia bodybuilding championship contest, as well as cheering on my gym buddies when they competed at smaller shows.

Once upon a time I had pretty enviable muscles and veiny, Madonna-worthy arms. I also had a fat (albeit muscular) ass and thighs and thick ankles. Some things never change, and my genes go pear-shaped. Of course once upon a time I was younger, and worked as a freelancer from home. That meant I could train as and when it suited me and take restorative naps to buck myself back up.

On moving to Glasgow I carried on training in a gym, though not as often, but then the combination of taking a staff job and falling ill with Crohn's disease left me creaky and flabby. Realistically, my biggest challenge will be finding (okay, making) time to actually go to the gym. Beyond that, I've struck up a deal with one of their trainers. We'll work together for three months, experimenting with various strategies until I can once again touch my toes with ease and wave goodbye to friends while wearing a vest without the fear of stray underarm flesh flapping back to catch me upside the head.

Meanwhile, if I must make a resolution for the new year it'll be this: before the spring equinox I'll finally pose for some fresh pictures!