EXERCISE DEMISE

Today I had a near-death experience. One of those ones you read about in books, where your whole life flashes before your eyes in the space of about 1.5 seconds and you realise how uninteresting you really are.

What was the cause this near fatal event? Exercise.

I’ve been told that exercise is good for you. A wholesome hobby that has benefits for both physical and mental health. Sounds fabulous. What’s not to love? Well, as it turns out, the actual moving around part.

I love the exercise clothes. Get me into a pair of those stretchy, slightly shiny exercise pants, cell phone tucked into the special little pocket, and I am ready for action. Add some flashy trainers and a pair of ear pods and I feel like I could tackle the Boston Marathon. The reality of actually having to remove myself from the couch, place one leg in front of the other, then repeat this action in quick succession, is another story.

So this ill-fated morning, I declared to my delightfully fit and healthy teenagers that we should go for a walk. I donned my exercise gear and feeling particularly energised, smashed back a banana smoothie. Off we went to the Hakarimata Ranges. After the pre-exercise bathroom stop all women who have given birth need to take, we headed up the path.

The first bend revealed the gravity of my mistake. The sheer scale of the ascending steps before me was something akin to Mt Everest. I’m certain this is what Sir Ed felt when he looked out his tent window at base camp. My exercise get-up had definitely met its match.

As far as I could see, disappearing into the trees at the top of the enormous hill, were steps upon steps upon steps. Standing motionless in a state of awestruck horror, I heard vaguely familiar voices in the distance. It sounded like they were saying, “Mum”. I looked up and spotted the appallingly energetic teenagers already half way up these multi-storey building-like steps.

Not wanting to confess my complete lack of actual exercise ability, I took a deep breath, gave them a wave and took off. One flight. Two flights. Three flights… four…flights… By this stage, the athletic duo had vanished beyond the top of the stairs. I took the opportunity to stop and catch my breath. More acutely aware of my lungs than I had ever been before, I swore to myself that I would never again take oxygen for granted.

Willing myself to continue, I gulped some more air and kept stepping. The first lookout point with its rickety bench seat was a welcome sight. I slumped onto it and declared to my waiting kids that we must be getting close to the top. I could feel the air thining with the altitude, I’m sure. I took their amused looks as encouragement, not mocking, and off we set again.
After 15 minutes of stair climbing, my thighs were burning hotter than the Australian bush in January. I feared my fancy pants would be charred forever. I felt ok with this though, as I suspected I may not be needing them again.

My son announced that we had reached the 150-metre point and were almost halfway. At this, my banana smoothie became acquainted with a punga tree on the side of the trail. Half way! Why does nobody tell you that exercising is actually hard. Not just hard, but sweat inducing, body singeing, lung destroying kind of hard. The chicks in the Rebel sports commercials have been lying to us!

Eventually I declared to the kids that they should go on ahead. “I’ll meet you there,” I wheezed, using up the miniscule amount of air remaining in my lungs. And with the gleeful bounds of puppies who have just been let off their leads, they charged up the hill and out of sight.

At this point I started making calculations. Could I get down the hill, to the drive-through and back again before they noticed I was missing? No, they could see my location on their phones. What if I just sat down? The tracking app isn’t pinpoint accurate, right? That wasn’t going to work either because the bush was now covered in banana flavoured vomit.

I decided my only viable option was to keep going. One slow, heavy, painful step at a time. I climbed and climbed and climbed. Frequent glances at my fancy fitness watch told me that my heart rate was about to exceed 200 beats per minute. It was at this point that my life flashed before me and I felt death was imminent. A middle aged, weighty woman wearing stretchy pants and expensive trainers. I could see the headlines:

“Overweight woman’s exercise failure identified as leading cause of death”.

Just as I had decided to lay down and hope the grim reaper was quick, I caught a glimpse of the summit through the trees. It was tantalising close. Right there! Suddenly my lungs filled and my mind cleared and with energy I didn’t believe possible, I forced myself up the remaining steps.

I burst through the trees into glorious, blazing sunlight with a sense of victory akin to winning a presidential election. I pumped my fists, whooped loudly, and then spotted my waiting teens. As I lowered my arms and tried to looked coy, they promptly ask what had taken so long. Of course, I could not answer them as I am too busy trying to skull water from my self-cooling, self-filtering exercise-y drink bottle.

Our descent seemed astonishingly quick. Perhaps the chocolate bikkies I had hidden in the glove compartment helped my motivation as we strode down to the car park. Once our gym-worthy stretches were complete and I had exchanged meaningful looks with other exercise seekers beginning their ascent, we hopped in the car to head for home.

“So Mum,” the not sweating, not hyperventilating, not dying teens asked, “shall we do this again next weekend?” And as I reached for a third biscuit, I smiled serenely and replied, “I don’t think so. I have decided that exercise is bad for my health.”