Running in the (prickly) heat

Yesterday I came down with heat rash, possibly the result of unwisely wearing a t-shirt under my shirt, and walking around in 33 degree heat, while still dazed, confused and sunburned from the junk on Sunday. Heat rash is vaguely disgusting, patches of inflamed bumps across your flesh, but it gave my fiancee some amusement as she held a bag of frozen peas against my back. Even strong men squeak sometimes, and I hold few pretensions about being strong.

Running out of exercise

Today my plan to go to the gym was thrown into disarray, by the gym closing down. I went to Seven-Eleven, blithely purchasing a bottle of Pocari Sweat before walking up the street to be presented with nothing more exciting than a big orange hoarding proclaiming that my gym would reopen in September, somewhere else.

The End Of A California Fitness Dream

I seem to have spent most of today asleep.

Running in Hong Kong: California Fitness

Back from Bangkok, and back to the gym. Compared to the gym, the Khaosan Road seems fairly civilised; it might be full of people on their gap yah, complete with fake dreadlocks and youthful idiocy, but there isn't the sound of overheated techno and madmen bleeding through from an aerobics studio.

Grunt work

Tonight I went to the gym, for the first time since I tried training to prepare for Chiang Mai, at the end of March. (What a waste of time that was; instead of lifting heavy weights, it would have been more appropriate to practise falling onto sharp rocks. Oh well, hindsight is 20-20.)

Busy, busy, busy

Today I went to the gym, partly because I want to start riding my bike more frequently, and thus feel the need to get Big And Strong. Or at least a bit bigger and stronger. Or at least not have arms so feeble that I can't hold onto the handlebars, or legs so weak that I can't stand on the pedals for more than a moment.

But also because I drank three pints of Wifebeater last night, and needed to clean my system out.

The Problem With Perspiration

I went to the gym tonight for the first time in ages. With the competition behind me, I no longer have to feel stressed about not eating biscuits on the sofa and playing videogames rehearsing. This had precluded most exercise for the last few weeks, and although the last time I went to the gym I was so bored that I attempted to simultaneously row and read a book, I knew I had to go back and burn some calories.

Back to the gym, book in hand

This evening I had nothing better to do, so I went to the gym. Actually, that's not quite right: there were lots of things I could have done that were better than going to the gym.

Poetry and sweat

Today I went to the gym at lunchtime, which turned out to be a mistake. I assumed that after half an hour of exerting myself over the rowing machine I'd be suffused with a post-exercise glow that would keep me cheery through the afternoon. Instead, I read a perfunctory email on the way back from the gym and was in a huff for the rest of the afternoon, this state of mind worsened by having worn myself out. At least I had remembered a change of clothes, rather than going to the office in a nylon singlet and a pair of short shorts.

Here comes the hot (and sweaty) stepper

I commenced my training for the Taipei 101 run-up today, by going to the gym and using the stepping machine. I'm not sure if I could call this a success or not. I did manage to lose two pounds between when I went to the gym and when I came back, and I didn't vomit over anyone or turn grey and pass out, but on the other hand, if the stepping machine's display is to be believed, in twelve minutes I only ascended 5 floors. One sixteenth of the target.

More California Fitness

In the hope of continuing the entente cordiale between our two nations, I went for lunch with a German lady at a restaurant in Wan Chai; and since the Brits had monopolised this island for over a century, it was only fair that we went to King Ludwig's for some German food.  (Well, sort of: she looked very askance indeed at schnitzel made from veal rather than pork, so maybe it wasn't that German, and everything was made of meat, so there wasn't much for me to eat - neither German nor food.)

A good night, a hot day

I really enjoyed last night's show at the comedy club. I'd done a bit of rehearsal yesterday (not really enough in my mind to feel comfortable) but I spent an hour sat in Starbucks staring at a blank wall, and that seemed to set me up properly.

My staring at the wall and zoning out was interrupted by the arrival of Dorsher, with news that my letter to HK magazine, correcting their grammar, had been published. This pleased me immensely: I'll scan it in tomorrow to show off my appearance in print. I'm sure it will make my mother proud.

If she's filled with pride to see her son taking people to task for incorrectly conjugating obscenities, that is.

Foreign objects

For lunch today I went and bought a salad with lots of A's in it; arugala, asparagus, avocado. They didn't have any artichoke, but they made up for this omission by including a hair.

Podcast #2

This evening Gary and I recorded our second podcast: 25 minutes of blethering about whether rats are worse than snakes, needless swearing and my terrible impression of a fitness coach with a hacking cough. There'll be a link to it as soon as Gary has worked his technical wizardry.  Or deleted the file.

Exercise and a podcast

I regret one thing from last night, and that was eating a felafel sandwich at the Lebanese place on Lyndhurst Terrace at 2am. There were ... unpleasant consequences. But I didn't want to stay focussed on that all morning. Instead I wandered blithely down to the California Fitness in Causeway Bay, and put myself through the mill.

This wasn't as hard as my previous let's-feel-like-death-and-start-shaking experience; I spent ten boring minutes on an exercise bike, then rowed 3000 metres and went for a run. Because I'm impressionable and believe everything printed in GQ, I've upped my exercise routine this week, to attempt an hour of cardio on each session. But because my body is falling apart, it took me twenty minutes to run 3 km. I suppose that's progress: I've improved from fifteen minutes a few weeks ago.

Oh. Maybe it doesn't work like that.

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.

Exercise

Today was Buddha's birthday, and in celebration of a calmly serene fat bloke, I went to the gym for another instalment of the run-until-you're-sick exercise plan.

Instead of visiting California Fitness in Central, I went to the branch in Causeway Bay; this is in a basement, so you can't look at the window at people having their hair cut, but that also means you don't find yourself accidentally perving down at passers-by.

Back to the gym

After a day at work that seemed to consist mainly of looking at my computer displaying farcically unhelpful messages about me posing a security threat to myself by wanting to generate a sales report, I went back to the gym for a work-out. Without the benefit of a personal trainer, but with an ipod with the volume stuck on LOUD.