Tag Archives: fitness

Too Rich and too Thin

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                The tale of Kate Moss’s meteoric rise to international supermodel stardom has been much related. She was ‘spotted’ at 14 years of age at an airport by a model agency scout. This is hardly a ‘rags to riches’ story, since young Kate was on holiday in the Bahamas, but still, doubtless provides fuel for hopeful adolescent girls’ imaginations. Since that time she has barely been out of the headlines of the tabloid press, either for her sense of style or for her wild party lifestyle and dubious partner choices.

                A cynic could be excused for thinking that Kate’s excessive over indulgences and subsequent exposure [photographed snorting cocaine, consorting with drug users] had done her no harm at all, since she continues to appear in ‘rich lists’, ‘super lists’ and so on; nevertheless there has been an outcry at the latest depictions and criticism of her inflated and imperfect physique as she holidayed in Ibiza.

                Kate has been lucky in most respects. Born with reasonable looks and being in the right place at the right time has been the catalyst for her success, then by cunning employment of the media and following the mantra that no publicity is bad publicity she has maintained a long [in supermodel terms] and financially satisfactory career. She is not the first or the last person to do this.

                But you should not expect to both exploit the masses interest in you and all you do and eschew all sense of responsibility. Having made a fortune from staying adolescent thin into middle age, using that look to get work and exploiting the media, it would be refreshing if Kate were to either retire from modelling or reveal the secrets of her bodily success; for in order to stay whip thin she must have loaded her system with myriad cocktails of drugs.

                With an obesity epidemic looming [or present], how helpful can it be for the huge, rich diet industry to keep focusing on the way we should look? Wouldn’t it be so much more helpful and motivating to encourage activity and show struggling dieters not only how much better they would feel by keeping within the average weight band, but how much more healthy life they could have.

                I suppose it must be more of a dilemma for those who, like Kate, have built a career around their looks, whether to ‘let it all go’ and live a normal life as they approach middle age. She could certainly afford to do this, although presumably the dieting habit would be hard to break and she famously told the world that ‘nothing tastes as good as skinny feels’.

                I must admit I quite enjoy the anonymity that being older bestows. I probably ‘scrub up’ reasonably well if the occasion demands it. Mainly, however I want to stay as fit as possible for as long as possible-and enjoy life, so I do my best to get regular exercise, then I can sometimes have a few chips with my lettuce leaves. 

It’s Torture on the Trail and Suffering in the Saddle…

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                In the doomed interests of resurrecting my bicycle fitness, my personal cycle trainer, [aka Husband] has begun the general cajoling, wheedling, persuading, justifying, soothing and encouraging needed to get me back into the saddle and off into the great beyond along the tracks and byways that make up France’s cycle-paths.

                In preparation for this annual event he has cleaned and prepped the bike [a wondrous bike-not in the least responsible for my ineptitude], gathered together any equipment that may be likely to make the entire business less arduous and painful [for both of us, you understand], organised as much as possible in the way of safe, flat, sheltered routes offering respite along the way-in other words-bars, and prepared himself for the slow, pathetic, whimpering would-be cyclist I always am.

                The ‘pistes’ are superb; flat [due to the terrain], tarmac, off-road, signed [mostly]. Husband is an expert cyclist, swooshing effortlessly through the half barriers and up over jutting kerbs with no perceptible reduction in speed. He offers an occasional glance over his shoulder to assess my progress and is rewarded by the sight of me back in the distance, affecting an undignified paddle through the chicane or lifting the handlebars up to scale the pavement. He offers strategic stops to assuage the soreness of the backside and the undercarriage; my own upholstery soon becomes tender, even with the gel-padded, hi-tech cushioning of the lycra cycle shorts that are wedged, nappy-like under my nether regions.

                “Keep your speed up…and just GO!” he exhorts as I attempt to negotiate yet another obstacle. In the past I have endeavoured to follow this instruction, resulting in my crashing into the sides of narrow bridges or parting company with the bike [painfully on to gravel] on a particularly sharp corner and rashly into a night-time clump of aggressive nettles. I seem to have an innate inability to steer, needing to dismount completely whenever a complete turn is needed, or any sudden change in direction.

                The traffic, thundering around the occasional roundabout where the path has momentarily disappeared, terrifies me. “I’m going to walk across”, I announce and he eyes me wearily as he waits for me to catch up.

                Somewhere there will be an incline, perhaps to cross a bridge, or a cross wind-or a head wind, where I fall further behind. “Low gear!” he advises, unaware no doubt that I’ve been in low gear since we started out and have, now, no more gears of the low sort to change to…

                Despite all this pain and effort I know that by the end of the month I will have racked up the kilometres and have returned to a semblance of my slow, summer, fair weather, recreational cycling persona, with a slightly more resistant derriere, sturdier legs, wind-blown skin and appetite for beer. Then I will be home and be able to take up the reins of Zumba where I left off……

Oh dear!

Keep up! A parable for the third age.

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                When I was in my early thirties and my youngest child was two I got a terrible shock. I was coming down the stairs one day and caught sight of a frumpy, fat, grey woman in a shapeless, elasticated-waist skirt I did not recognise. Who was it? It was me. For once I’d looked up into a mirror attached to the wall just where the stairs ended-the first look at myself full length for some time. I’d been preoccupied with matters of childcare-to the extent that I’d quite lost any sense of myself at all.

                Overall, that shock was a good thing. I was never a sporty type. I was born into a sedentary family. My parents invented the potato couch. My mother’s preferred activity was to sit in front of the TV and knit-preferably next to a box of Cadbury’s Milk Tray. My two brothers did not pursue any type of sport, or display any interest in sports activities. Aside from gardening, my father was alone among us in enjoying watching cricket. That was it.

                Despite this we were not fat children, and we played outside in all weathers as well as eating a somewhat conservative, but healthy diet.

                So having been jolted into undertaking an uncomfortable appraisal of my state, I took myself to an exercise class in a local church hall. This was the eighties; an era of leotards, tights and leg-warmers, an ensemble that most of my fellow exercisers had taken to with gusto and in a plethora of pastel colours [predominantly pink]. Swathed in a camouflage of baggy, jersey jogging pants [that had seen action as decorating and gardening gear] and shapeless tee shirt, I cringed somewhere near the back with little hope of blending in.

                But I loved it. I loved the cheesy music and the chance to almost dance, and I loved the way I felt afterwards, tired, aching and jubilant. I loved meeting my fellow aerobic-ers and being part of the shared ethic. Soon I progressed to a proper gym and even acquired some acceptable and appropriate clothing [not pink and not leg warmers]. Over time my shape became more conventional, but best of all I felt fit. I started running a bit-only half a mile at first, but slowly building up until I could do about 5 miles without too much discomfort.

                I probably reached a ‘peak’ of fitness [for me] at around 40-45. After that the joints began to complain, I slowed and had to start modifying what I did. I went to the GP with a condition called plantar fasciitis, which is an inflammation of the membranes under your feet. The doctor asked me why I couldn’t just go for a nice walk. It was a growing trend, he said, for the middle aged to present themselves with exercise-related injuries.

                Nowadays, being as fond of dance exercise as ever, I’ve taken to the ever popular Zumba, coupled with, as my doctor suggested, a good deal of walking [with a bit of cycling thrown in during nice weather]. During the day the gym is packed full of sprightly ladies [and a few gents] of more mature years all strutting their stuff. It is a wonderful and uplifting sight. I just wonder what my mother would make of it all if she were around and were to look up from her knitting and to see it!