Death by Lycra

I’m typing this with streaming eyes, stuffy nose and a throat that makes me feel like an apprentice to one of those crazy performers who swallows broken glass. In my case, it didn’t go down but lodged in my larynx and all I can get out is a croak, and a barking cough like the ghastly dog from three doors down.

I am not putting up with it. I had to cancel an appointment with the personal trainer at the gym for the third time running as I haven’t the energy to walk to the bus stop, let alone show off my prowess on a dozen machines when my eyes are streaming too much to see whether I’m on wimpish Level 4 or big-bog-macho-hairy-chested Level 40.

Talking of the latter, the basement gym where all the muscle tends to congregate must have been closed the other day for suddenly the upstairs gym, that gentle space where those recovering from heart attacks, or those who, like me, haven’t exercised for years and are tentatively flexing flaccid flab, proceed at a staid pace on the treadmill and hang gasping onto the rotating arms of the cross-trainer, was invaded. Huge, sweating bears with biceps the size of Tube trains pumped weights with great grunts and loud exhalations. A swarthy Latin poseur in tight gym shorts and carefully gelled hair paused between the lat machine and the triceps push to parade in front of the mirror, slyly eyeing up the reflections of the females to see who was admiring him. It was not good. Perhaps this lurgy came to save me from death by lycra.