So, I’ve been wondering what to write a blog about and then today, I went to the gym… and fell off the treadmill.
Not that I’m complaining about the gym. No. It isn’t their fault that I had loaded several Jessie J tunes to my phone for the kids amusement when travelling in the car, and they started playing in my headphones as I began my second workout in two years.
‘Oh no, fast forward!’ I said – to the phone – which promptly decided now would be a good time to demonstrate to the whole place just how hard the treadmill was bouncing about with me jogging on it, by springing out of its pocket and clattering onto the floor.
It was then I learned the one thing they don’t teach you on your induction day. The emergency stop button on a treadmill doesn’t ‘emergency-ly’ stop – you know, like your car does when a cat runs out and you face-plant the windscreen? What it actually does is think about it for a second:
‘Emergency stop? Are you sure? I’ll just wait a few seconds before slamming on my brakes… ooh, where have you gone?’
Do you remember that moment when you visited the fairground as a young, carefree slip of a lad/lass and thought what awesome fun it would be to try and navigate the moving floor in a fun house, full of Diamond White cider? Just me then? Oh… well anyway, my accident went a bit like that…
My fellow gym members learned a new sound today:
And I saw my life flash before me as my knees-met-my-face-met-rubber on a fast-moving conveyor belt in what can only be described as a horrible reconstruction of the BBC’s Generation Game. As my arse made it’s own way south to the machine behind mine, I was just waiting for the guy on it to shout, ‘cuddly toy!’
But, as it turned out, the guys around me weren’t going to be put off their workout for anybody. They weren’t even missing the phonesex-esque huffing I’d most likely been doing – without being able to hear myself thanks to Jessie J – just seconds earlier as I started to accept death at just 5kmph.
After finally rescuing my phone (always my first priority in the face of potential disfigurement), I pulled myself up and looked around for evidence of sympathy – or filming – and found everybody had remained eyes front, in a fully fitness focused stance. Or just not wanting to meet my eyes in case they laughed, which is exactly what I would have been like in their gym shoes.
My saviour came in the form of a Virgin Health employee I only know as John, who not only raced over from his post way over the other side of the gym to help me, but then proceeded to spend five minutes telling me how many people he’d seen doing far worse auditions for You’ve Been Framed than I just had, to make me feel better. Which it did. When I told him I was likely to write about the whole episode, he requested that I mention he was a devastatingly handsome young fittie. About now he will be regretting that.
For those that might be worried, I wasn’t hurt. Except for a grazed knee; which I may have got after whipping off my sports bra at high speed in the changing room afterwards and racing away red-faced.
Ask me if I feel fitter after my workout today – go on, ask me! Or better still, ask me what song I was trying to fast forward before said catastrophic accident?
Refer to today’s blog post title…
I kid you not!
Please note: no treadmills were broken during the creation of this particular day of my sitcom life.