Target Weight

When I began my weight loss journey, there was a goal. A number in my  head.

Just a small one to begin with. Lose ten pounds. I hit it, and set another one.

And so it has continued for the last four years.

Some targets, smashed out of the park.

Others, hard fought for and a long time coming.

For the last six months I have had a number in mind. An arbitrary one perhaps, but symbolic to me. A number based on nothing more than when I hit it, I will have lost six stone.

It has been just out of reach for what feels like a very, very long time. A few pounds away, but a thousand miles too.

And then.

It was there.

Totally unexpected.

Nothing different that week. Just one more week of hitting the gym hard and counting the calories.

And then the number is there.

A pause for reflection. Gratitude that the work has finally paid off.  A deep breath. I have arrived.

Today, that number has gone again thanks to a weekend of Easter treats.  But it will be back.  It is within my sights.

And then…. the next target.

Bring it on.


Killer Question

Today I engaged in some high level whinging to my Personal Trainer.

I was complaining about how long my weight had been unchanged. How I have plateaued. How six months of slogging away in the gym had delivered me not the loss of one single pound.  And about how this was completely and utterly unfair.

And then he asked me one question.

What have you actually changed in that last six months?

I bluffed it out. Defended myself.  Argued that I had, at great personal sacrifice, entirely given up alcohol.

He pointed out to me that I gave up alcohol two weeks ago and that it therefore didn’t count, yet at least.

And then he asked me again.

What have you actually changed during that six months you are complaining about?

Leaving me to concede……. Nothing.

I haven’t made any changes so I can’t expect any miracles. I haven’t put in the effort, so I won’t get the reward. You know what they say.  Do what you have always done and get what you have always got.  I always work hard in the gym.  I always eat the same diet with the same number of calories.  So if I want different results I have to do different things, work even harder.

Sometimes, you need someone else who is prepared to point out the totally bloody obvious.

Damn it.

I hate it when he is right.

Dear Running….

I love the gym. Put me in front of a weight rack and I am a happy girl.

I’m also partial to a little bit of Zumba.  Pilates, trampolining classes, even some HIIT.  I like to ride my bike and I love to swim.

But oh, how I hate to run.

I don’t like to run in the cold or the rain. I don’t like to run up hills.  I don’t like to run, period.

So I wish someone would explain to me why I keep on signing up for races all the same.

I am a lousy runner. My form is terrible, my legs never seem to work properly and I don’t like how it makes my body feel during or afterwards.

But here’s the thing. As much as I hate it something compels me to do it, and I know that the process of running has taught me so much.  About running, about life.

I have learned that you get what you train for. And conversely, you don’t get what you don’t train for.  You can’t just turn up on the day and hope for a miracle.

Running slowly, is still running. And to coin a cliché, you are still lapping everyone sitting on the sofa.

By standing on the starting line of a race you are doing more than most people ever will.

When you are standing on that starting line you have no idea what made you do this and you want to go home. This feeling will persist until you run over the finish line, when you realise it was awesome and want to sign up for another one.

That it is all about striving to be your Personal Best, always.

You can only ever run your own race. Your only real competition, and also barrier, is yourself.

Nothing tastes better than a Jelly Baby mid-way through a run.

The sound of your feet on the pavement is life.


Dear running, I hate you. But I kind of love you too.