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| A recovery walk to Ladywell Fields |
My Swiss ball, which I am using as a seat while I type this, is a bit deflated, much as I felt after last night's race. Every morning I use the ball to perform a less than athletic pike move, then upend my arse into a position called the jacknife. I must look completely inane, especial when my pyjama top flops down over my upside down head and reveals my breasts to my startled husband. I count 15 jacknifes after a bit of foam roller work on the tired legs. The jacknifes are too easy though, because my ball needs pumping up and I've mislaid the pump.
Most of my home-based exercises, on the yoga mat, with dumbbells, tricep dips on the edge of the bath are done hurriedly and inexpertly, but religiously. Every morning. I am aware that this activity irritates my husband, who thinks that 51 year old women should confine themselves to long walks and the odd pilates class if they really want to, but should not be trying to maintain the level of fitness that I am committed to. He also equates fat tummies with jolliness and contentment, whereas I look upon a beer belly and/or spare tyre with dismay and some disgust. My half of our very big study is being taken over by running magazines and books (my excuse is that I work for Women's Running). His half is mostly music books, dictionaries and encyclopedias and related reference books. We are separated by ceiling-to-floor shelving that holds about 10,000 music CDs (he writes about music). We are also separated by our opinions on body shape, aging, fitness, running and politics. It's surprising that we have any sort of a sex life, being so different and disagreeing so much, but we do, because runners like me have healthy libidos. Running is sexy.
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