The inexplicable heaviness of being

For the last week and a half, I've felt rotten; I'll struggle to pull myself out of bed, drag myself to the office and then feel incapable for several hours. Coffee hasn't helped. Even drinking decaff seems to produce the same exaggerated hungover feeling after the placebo effect has worn off.


The only time I do feel alive is between the hours of ten pm and midnight, and even then sometimes it's a struggle. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy having my eyes swivel in counter-rotating directions as much as the next person, but all this feeling beaten-up is wearing me down.
Today I figured I'd defy it by going to the gym at lunchtime. Maybe what I needed was for my heart rate to get up a bit. Perhaps the feeling of decay and collapse was due to sitting down all day while my body changed into some sort of cheese.

The gym didn't seem to help; I did seven minutes warming up on a stationary bicycle, without my heart rate lifting above 120. That hardly felt like exercise, more like sitting down and waggling my legs.

Meanwhile, the treadmills were all occupied by people running very bloody fast, so I strolled over to the rowing machines instead, and did seven and a half minutes there. (Enough to burn 100 calories, apparently.). Then another seven and a half minutes on a running machine, feeling like I was going to die, and wondering if I could blame it on too much booze last night.

I certainly could, if one can of Heineken is too much booze.

After that I was shaking, so I stopped and went to the changing rooms to shake some more and have a shower.

Once I'd showered and dressed again, my sweat glands decided it was time to get to work, so by the time I was back at the office there were embarassing patches all over my shirt, and I still had a red face. And I was still shaking.

Luckily I had lunch, after which the shakes stopped (the red face remained). And I was at least awake now; if I hadn't enjoyed going to the gym, I'd certainly enjoyed stopping.

I did read GQ last week though, and it advised two cardio sessions a week, with twenty minutes each on bike, treadmill and rowing machine. Twenty minutes? I think I'd go crazy staring at the mirror for that long.

Well, that's the rowing machine and bicycle views, anyway. Depending which treadmill you run on, you'll get the Wacoal bra advert, or the hairdressers, or a brick wall. I've had quite enough time to research this now, and although the bra advert seems ok for a while, eventually it's no aid to running fast. I think seeing somebody's hair being cut is far more helpful for training.

Although with eight days until the race in Taiwan, I'm not sure that I have time to organise a mobile barber to run in front of me for five miles. Drat my rubbish preparation.

Rehearsed my set a few times this evening, then went for a foot massage. So that's psychic pain, ennui and doubt, topped off with the physical pain of a man trying to pull off your toes. Perfect way to finish a Thursday, I think.