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Elliptical Madness
On site life (working on events/ exhibitions) has never sat well with daily running. Located in Geneva for a week of early starts and late nights I need to find a solution. My daily outings at home have gone pretty well. The pups have matured into muscular adolescents; lean, mean hunting machines streaking across the downs, flat bellies brushing the short grass as they play high-speed tail-tag. We're up to four kilometres now - that takes us past the stables and halfway up Mount Harry (aka Wicker Man Hill). Another few weeks and we'll get all the way to BlackCap.
Last night I sauntered into my (extremely well-appointed) hotel. To my right the terrace sang its Sirens song 'London Priiide, London Priiide ...' to my right the stairwell descended into the sweaty bowels of the building like a yawning Hellmouth beneath a large sign that read 'FITNESS'. I had precisely an hour to kill; not enough time to work out and have a beer. It was either or. I waited patiently for the shoulder-mounted angel and demon to start whispering into my ears.
Much to my surprise I went for the former, throwing on shorts and T-shirt and heading purposefully towards the gym. All manner of contraptions awaited; elliptical trainers, a lone 'normal' treadmill, several upright and laid-back peddling machines and some state-of-the-art multi-application Weapons of (Body)Mass Destruction. I took to an upright static bike and spent the next 15 minutes trying not to slide off the seat. I dialled into the Madrid ATP Tennis semi between El Fed and Nadal. Nadal had lost the first set, a close encounter, 5-7, but had evidently roared back to take the second 6-1. A break up in the decider he was trying to close out, but the Swiss Royale was having none of it. The two men traded fearsome blows, sweat pinging off their glowing bodies as the ball scorched across the net. The rallies grew longer and more intense. Even without sound I could feel the tension in the crowd as their Homeboy fought tooth and nail for every point.
When the death blow came the relief was palpable. I glanced about the gym for local reaction, realising almost immediately that no-one here would give a toss anyway. By virtue of them being in an airport hotel there was every chance that none of them were Swiss.
With the game over I slid one last time off the slippery seat and mounted something akin to an Aliens Powerloader. Giant footplates slid back and forth, propelling hand grips to and from me at waist height. I felt certain a false move would lead to evisceration or, worse, emasculation, so I grabbed the dancing hand-holds and found I could assist my ungainly stride by working them as well.
Ten minutes in and the readout showed I'd gone virtually nowhere. I was distraught, not to mention extremely warm and frustrated. Behind me a lithe blonde goddess flowed effortlessly on an identical machine at approximately four times my cumbersome pace. I redoubled my efforts to no avail. I reached for my iPhone.
'Andy? Hi, it's Ash -'
'Ash! Can I just say I'm watching a recording of today's R's match - DON'T TELL ME ANYTHING ABOUT TODAY'S FOOTBALL!'
'OK ... er, how the hell do you run on an elliptical trainer?'
I explained the nature of the beast and El Gordo, chuckling softly, explained how it works. I needed to extend my stride to get the most out of the experience. It worked. I could feel my glutes engage (Glaconman’s words rang in my ears as I did so) and, encouraged, ploughed on for a further twenty minutes. After a total of half an hour I'd covered approximately 1.8 kilometres. Andy assured me distance was irrelevant on these contraptions but I still felt cheated. Next time I’ll just plod around the block.
I did sneak in a swift half before we set off for my restaurant of choice en Genève - 'Spice of India'. Terrific Indian food cooked fresh to your precise instructions - as hot, spicy or as mild as you wish, washed down with a brace of Guinni across the street in the slightly surreal Lord Jim Pub. What’s great about the Lord Jim is the attractive and effervescent hostess, of unspecified Eastern European extraction, who fusses around you like a young mother hen insisting that you have food ‘or at least try some penis’. This was clearly her attempted pronunciation of ‘peanuts’ as opposed to an unusual and unwelcome offer. It made me giggle like a schoolboy the first time I heard it just as it did again last night. Little things ...
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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