It's the day after my 51st birthday. Mandela is 95, and still in hospital after six weeks.
It's a long, intense day of attending the Coaching course. I wonder how I will cope after ten hours of siting and learning, but some people on the course have committed to sponsor me.
That morning in the session we each share with the person next to us what Mandela has meant to us. I say I once shook his hand and I share my plan of action.
I decide not to share with the whole group of fellow coaches-in -training. Wallflower Janet wins.
Home by 6.45. Hit the gym by 7.30.
I count every minute of exercise. Step machine, treadmill, cycle. Doing fractions in my head. One sixth. One fifth. Half way. How long can an hour be- this is boring. Maybe it's like jail. Get some perspective. Okay I put myself here. I watch an elderly couple find a pair of cycles next to each other. She stands and waits for him to clean and disinfect her bicycle before she's happy to climb on. My oldest friend texts me. "Are you done?"
I am home by 8.40. I eat supper at 8.45. Mike and I chat in the kitchen.
I realize I haven't thought about whether I can
accumulate hours and decide not. If I offer myself the option of accruing
hours, then I lose the discipline of having to exercise every day ,
and I may begin the pattern of rationalizing days off. So unless I get sick,
it's every day.
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