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SUSAN HELLARDThere’s a new fitness regime at Hammond Towers – but will Richard keep on track?
Those new year, new you guilt trips have been taking their toll on the inhabitants of Hammond Towers. The dust has been well and truly unsettled in the area we like to call the “gym”. I put this in inverted commas because, unlike those pristine palaces of health that most people associate with the word, ours is more of a random mishmash of fitness machines and a set of weights.
It’s not exactly purpose-built and plush; there aren’t any chestnut-coloured, strapping young chaps flexing their biceps, or lithe groups of stylish ladies queueing up to do fiendishly difficult spinning classes – surely all that exertion just makes you feel sick? But maybe that’s it. If you feel sick you can’t eat and ergo, you lose weight. Got it.
The whole “gym” thing started a few years ago. Richard decided he should really concentrate on getting a bit fitter, but his running habit came up against a couple of major obstacles, called shin splints. He’d come hobbling home after 10 minutes, miserable and frustrated with a sudden and desperate need for a cup of tea and half a packet of chocolate biscuits, which was just about the worst solution.
So we decided to invest in a machine called a cross trainer, which was great, except Richard was its only friend. And even he eventually agreed, after a rather heated conversation about my lack of enthusiasm for the beast, that there was a reason for its name.
“It’s just a bit, well, unfriendly,” I told him.
“It’s a fitness machine, it’s not supposed to be your best chum.”
“No, I know, but it’s sort of clunky and uncomfortable, and makes you do things that feel unnatural.”
“It’s making your muscles work. You just don’t like pushing yourself.”
“Ooh! I do push myself all the time; haven’t you seen me sliding around in the mud every day, hauling enormous bales of hay bigger than me, and running around like a mad woman? Cheek.”
“But you don’t like exercise.”
“No, I do like exercise, but not when it feels like I’m being bullied. I loved the rowing machine – it was a thoroughly enjoyable way to work out as I could almost envisage sweeping along the Amazon. And I used to do aerobics daily when we first met, if you remember? But that strange implement that makes your legs go one way and your arms go in another is aptly named.”
Then, as luck would have it, Izzy suggested that it would be good to have a machine we could all use – such as the treadmill they had at school. I saw my opportunity.
“Well, I did tell Daddy he should get one of those years ago, so that he could run indoors, on a cushioned surface for his shin splints, but he wasn’t keen.”
The comment was studiously ignored, until...
“If we bought one would you use it?” asked Richard.
“Oh God, yes!”
“Because, if I’m honest, I don’t particularly enjoy using the cross trainer either, and maybe we could part exchange it...”
“What an excellent idea...”
So the gauntlet was thrown down, and for the next week I trawled the internet for a super-duper running-on-the-spot machine. I whittled it down to three and presented my findings to Richard (already knowing which one was by far the best after reading a million and twenty three independent reviews).
With my back-up detective work and insider knowledge, we soon chose the right one for the job, and two sturdy chaps and a large van arrived to commence installation.
Soon afterwards, the enthusiasm began to build. Now even Willow skips over to the barn in her shorts and trainers for “a go” on the running machine.
I thought the treadmill was a resounding success – until I noticed that while the girls were getting fighting fit, daddy dearest was still in jeans and a jumper, and using the gym to catch up on some quiet reading. I suppose with all my equestrian experience I should realise that you can lead a horse to water, but...
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