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| Punch with bad intention |
First, an apology: petty, shallow preoccupations stalk this blog. Idiotic fascinations with body flab and sag will appear in many of the 365 posts I am committed to write until The Virgin London Marathon on 26 April 2015.
It is quite shaming, I know, but despite my mature age I am still vain. I want, most of all, to run fast and try to get a UKA age grading of 80% (the best I've done so far is 77%).
I am pretty sure that to do this my body has to be in great shape, so the muscle tone needs to be the best it can be, given the natural and inevitable deterioration of age.
I also want to look good in my clothes, and I determined not to sink into round-shouldered, flab backed slump of midlife. So I am keen to hammer that punchbag the hardest and fastest that I can. I sweat and pant and punish my body into 40+ crossbow moves (Erik tells me the swimmers can do 70+) . He tells me to slam down that ball 'with bad intention' raising my arms straight and high above my head.
That movement strikes a chord. When I visit my elderly godmother in her care home, I am struck by how many old ladies and gents cannot raise their arms straight above their heads. Such a simple move, but the slump and stillness of the ageing body creeps up on you. I am returning to a favourite theme, I know. Before you know it the flesh is falling away from the bones - nothing to hold it up. So I squat, lunge, punch, stretch, reach and repeat, repeat, repeat. I seek muscle definition in my back view. Bra strap overhang horrifies me. My mind can be on higher things, and care about all this, too.
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