Features

Frequent traveller: Getting physical

30 Sep 2013 by BusinessTraveller

In which our correspondent finds that trying to keep fit on the road can bring her out in a sweat

My boss once told me that when you pass 40, fitness doesn’t matter any more, it’s just about not getting fat.

At the time I thought that was a bit of a fatalistic viewpoint, but now I’m starting to think he was right. Achieving “ripped abs” and “toned buns” isn’t easy when you’re eating and drinking your way around the world – even when I manage to squeeze in a day of fasting here and there, it only makes me feel less guilty about that large portion of truffle linguine I just ordered (still, it was a feast day).

When I turned 39 a few months ago, I decided to see if I could set myself on a leaner, trimmer course for life. I mean, isn’t fit the new thin? Aren’t “power arms” for girls as well as guys these days? I must confess, it hasn’t been easy – how do people do it? I seem to be meeting more and more high-powered professionals who are either running marathons or fitting in punishing cardio sessions before arriving at the office. As if there wasn’t enough competition in the workplace.

The problem with getting fit is that when you’re new to it, there’s so much room for error, especially when you’re jogging in new cities (I always get lost), using unfamiliar gyms or turning up for yoga sessions in foreign languages. In Spain, one teacher tried to translate, encouraging me to “engage my feminine parts”, which was very confusing.

Equally stressful is finding yourself in a room with a maniacally camp instructor in short shorts who thinks it’s hilarious to pretend to get the countdown wrong when you’re desperately attempting 20 Russian twists. “Ten, nine, eight, 15, 14…” Or worse still, when you decide to try something new and put your name down for an “Animal Flow” or “MetCon3” class, only to find they’re either laughably ridiculous or ridiculously difficult. Or both. It’s situations like this where I lose my sense of humour altogether.

Trying to maintain a regime when staying at a less than luxurious hotel can be grim – fuzzy monitors stuck on MTV, a stale smell of sweat in the air and a general feeling of uncleanliness adds a whole other dimension to the torture. On one trip I got up early, changed into my gear and made my way through a maze of corridors to find that the windowless “fitness centre” comprised a broken cross trainer, a bike with no pedals and a treadmill facing a wall. I turned on my heel and consoled myself with a full English.

The next time I stayed in a low-cost hotel I packed a workout DVD to play on my laptop. I thought it was the perfect solution – until I got a knock on my door from a member of staff saying there had been a complaint from my neighbour about a loud thumping sound. And, “Was everything okay madam?” Standing there in my T-shirt and trainers, there was no alternative but to fess up – I’d been doing power jumps. Exercise – it’s the new sex.

Luxury hotels have their problems, too, especially the ones that attract celebrities, because you never know who you are going to bump into. This means there is the added pressure of trying to look good when pumping iron, no easy task when you are bright red and pouring with sweat.

One colleague told me of the time he found himself working out next to Cameron Diaz in an LA gym. In attempting to attract her attention by bench-pressing a 100kg barbell, he dropped it on his neck, pinning himself down. All he could do was lie there until he gathered enough strength to lift it up and slink out sheepishly without catching her eye.

I had a similar situation not long ago, this time in a swimming pool. Waking before dawn, I figured I could easily run down without my makeup on and do 50 lengths before anyone else arrived. As I walked in, I was surprised to see a man in the water having a swimming lesson.

It was only when the chap started paddling in my direction that I realised who he was. My lifelong celebrity heartthrob, the romantic hero of many a Hollywood film. Mortified that I must look like a drowned rat, my only consolation was that he must have been equally embarrassed, struggling to get to the other end of the pool with his plastic float held out in front of him. So I guess I’m not the only one having issues with self-betterment.

It’s with this in mind that I can’t help wondering – shouldn’t we all just try to age gracefully? I mean, who wants Madonna arms anyway, with all those bulging veins and protruding muscles? I think my boss was right – maybe “not getting fat” is enough to aim for.

Illustration by Ben Southan

Frequent Traveller ©BenSouthan
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