Today I took a really heavy bike for a long walk up a steep mountain

DAY ONE of the Mawson Trail
Apparently an easy day to begin with. Only 40 Ks straight up hill. You may remember I have already admitted to lack of technique when it comes to mountain biking. Well combine this with a man size, heavy mountain bike and you might work out why I was walking most of the trail today. The breaking point was a fall - which  lots of people behind me saw and yet NOT ONE WORD of sympathy by the way - which meant I couldn't get back on the bike anyway... and so it went from there. At least until I got to the top, and remounted for the downhill run. Persistent drizzle turned the "Dust Nuisance" signs into a sad joke as I poised myself over the bike (bum off the seat) to assign the correct amount of weight to the front and rear wheels while using the brakes to slow the headlong rush towards certain doom - again. Too much brake caused an alarming sideways slewing motion as my knobbley tyres were filled with slick, wet clay and therefore useless for traction. At times it was better to let gravity guide me along the deeply rutted groves, the exact width of a tyre, rather than trying to control the bike. An act of faith at times. A fine balancing act - in every sense. I was getting really good at it too, but I discovered I have the unlady-like habit of riding with my mouth wide open, and collected several mouthfuls of thick mud as it flicked up from my front tyre. Lost all my mates after a flat tyre delayed departure from morning tea, and soon found myself riding with no one. I was sure my friend was just behind me, but I HAD been waiting for ages as a small collection of riders passed me. I was getting cold and wet, and then began to think he'd passed me with that small last bunch and I was standing all alone in a forest for no good reason getting colder and wetter by the minute. Got in to camp and noticed he was not there, so therefore must have had a breakdown. If he was feeling anything like I was it could have been of the psychological kind, but knowing his fitness levels and strength of character I figured it was a mechanical one. So I asked the powers that be what happens to riders who break down on the trail, and was reassured that there is a really late tail-end Charlie who sweeps up the last of the riders at the end of each day, but here's the phone number to ring if I was worried about him. So being the devoted friend that I am, I sat down and had lunch, deciding that another 20 minutes might do the trick. Another unlady-like habit was revealed to me (2 in one day - how will I cope!) I like to lean on my elbows at the dinner table! I know this because my elbows were one of the really hurtie bits after my fall. Took a good look and there was blood seeping through my clothes! This should win me some sympathy. But I didn't get any (again) because at that moment (precisely 20 munites and one delicious lunch) later he staggered dramatically in. Three flat tyres! Wrong tube! Disaster! All the sympathy I could have got was cruelly redirected. (Personally I don't think he desrves any at all.) But I'm over it now. Its amazing what a hot shower can fix - even if it is in the back of a truck... Now the only problem I have for today is to figure out which drink is the most effective way of removing the taste of mud from my mouth. This could take some time, so I can see a long evening at the pub ahead. (Any excuse, I know!!!)

Disaster!

It's the eleventh hour  - almost literally - and some @*!!--# has smashed my car window in and stolen my briefcase. Its MY LIFE as in my business, personal stuff, diary, paperwork. So if I actually get on the right flight tomorrow it will be a miracle! I lost my carefully composed travel list for packing light too, so I've packed in a last minute hurry (today was taken up with other things,as you can imagine) and my bag is a shambolic mess of unrelated items. But hey, they didn't steal my pedals! And my passport wasn't in there. Things could be a lot worse...

PartyTime!

I'm at the bach sharing the festivities as its my bro's 50th birthday, as well as Easter, as well as ANZAC Day...soooo much going on. I am unsuccessful at keeping to the prescribed training schedule as the party atmosphere is all-consuming and too tempting. Its a very small place, but about 100 party-goers arrive. Massive amounts of food arrived with each guest too. The festivities began soberly enough with a Karakia (Maori blessing of the food) and prayers, but once that was out of the way we began to party. At least a dozen guests turned out to be musicians, picked up various instruments and somehow jelled together. They were still playing as the sun came up - at about the time when I should have been getting on my bike...  But I knew it would be like this. I had cut myself some slack. Besides, by now all the hard work has been done. In fact I only brought the mountain bike with me because it needed a good wash to get last weekend's salt and sand off. Guilt however eventually got the better of me and I took it out for a 50 K spin in the hills later on. All good until I got back and found my cleats had rusted shut. Landed softly in the thick grass that grows over the septic tank. Many willing hands to get me back up on my feet... but it must have looked funny. Lesson learned: always wash your bike after ridning through salt water puddles!

"Well Isn't it ironic..."

Went for a powerwalk at 6am in order to fit everything into my rapidly dwindling pre-trip days. You may remember I kept all my training notes in pen on paper format. (It's one I understand.)  Getting all this onto a blog post has been an unresolved task hanging over my shoulder for weeks. So last weekend I took a deep breath, found a blog site, signed up, got a password, went live (!) and spent five hours writing it all into the blog post box. The winking cursor invites you to "go ahead, you are now a live blogger!" or whatever the cheery little message said to me at the time. So I did. Well I felt like a silly old blogger by the time I'd realised I'd lost the lot as soon as I'd finished and hit the save button. So I tried to go live with my blog by myself. I should have known better. After all I'd just finished writing about the importance of asking for expert help when you know its out there and you are clearly in need of it. (The irony wasn't lost on me.) Stayed up late and did it all again. Another five hours later (yawn!) it's all in Word Doc. I'm too scared to even open up my blog site by this point, so today I accepted the kind offer of a techo friend who is an expert in these matters. She took me through the process by phone, patiently waiting for the lightbulb to come on with each step... An hour later I know how to do things I didn't even know existed in the world of blogging, website links and e-mailing! I have climbed an amazing learning curve and feel good about it as well! (And there's so much more...!

"With Friends Like These..."

Training for the 900 kilometre Outback Odyssey Ride.

Late January 2011: Well blogger me!! I’ve been asked to write a blog, and I’m not sure what one is. I’d better find out. I suppose the quickest way would be to ask someone who’s about 12 years of age. (Meanwhile I’ll put everything in simple note form. As in pen and paper.)

Late February 2011: Well that took some time! I have finally been given a few blogging tips, and I’m going to start. As soon as I begin my training. At the moment there’s nothing to tell, because all I’m doing is power-walking the dog every day for an hour, and I’ve been doing that for years. But I’d better get moving because last year my once-a-year cycling buddies convinced me to sign up for the Mawson Trail, apparently a gorgeous bush walk in Oz somewhere. Or something. Anyway they were all raving about it. I wasn’t really listening. I’d just bought a house. Money was going to be tight. “I’m not going anyway”, I thought. We’d just done the Rail Trail in New Zealand, which was the trip I’d planned last year with more emphasis on hotel bed comfort at the end of an easy day’s flat riding, and as much pub-centred entertainment we could fit in between. Everyone was high on endorphins, fun and trans-Tasman friendship and wanted to repeat the magic. Eventually I said yes to whatever this Mawson Trail was about because I didn’t want to miss out, and I trust them – then I lost track of time.

Late March 2011: I now realise I have misplaced my trust and we have only 32 days to go and my fitness is at an all time low so near to a bike tour. (Yes – somewhere along the way between last March and this March I realised it’s a serious bike ride.) My excuse for fitness failure? The end of a romantic relationship, shifting into a new house/suburb (alone) and turning 52 – all in the space of 6 days.  And just before Christmas - classic stress recipe. My normal routine was out of whack and it was showing up 4 months later as laziness. Then I got sick and high on three rounds of antibiotics (injected directly into my bottom – ouch!) and steroids (ker-blam! on the scales). With no fitness routine, and a haphazard approach to cooking-for-one, it was time for action. After a comprehensive internet search I found a promising local gym, and phoned to make an appointment at Club Physical, Birkenhead. Sometimes the best course of action is to enlist expert help. And, looking at myself in the mirror – flaccid bits where good cycling muscles used to be - that time had come.

Wed 30^th March:

As soon as I walk in I’m impressed with my choice of gym. It has the atmosphere of quality about it. Gaylene meets me and makes me feel really welcome. There’s no constant stomach rumble of workout machines vibrating on the floor of a vast and characterless room. This place sits on the penthouse level of a shopping mall with handy basement carparking below, has panoramic water and city views, and has been divided into intimate spaces. The floors have a solid feel to them, designed for their purpose – some of them raised a few inches onto platforms to take extra punishment. I can hear the distant clink of weights touching in another room, and inspiring workout music all round. I’m given lots of choices, including the services of a personal trainer. I have never had one before and am excited by the idea so I say “Yes!” After a tour of the gym I have a young personal trainer who I shall refer to from now on as Rawiri (because that’s his name) and a goal, although I can’t tell him much about the cycling I’ll be doing on the trail because I don’t know yet. All I know is it’s off-road, its two weeks and its 900 Ks long. (No-one is answering my questions about the daily miles, the terrain, the accommodation, the climate, the snakes, the crocodiles - but I’m becoming very suspicious…) Rawiri does a double-take, then makes advance appointments with me twice a week for the remaining four weeks, adding that I’m his most challenging client because of the tight 4 week time frame. Ouch, like I need reminding! Then I am put through my paces. He does some calculations. Then says I’m quite fit really. But I notice the chart he’s referring to has “50 plus” on it. I ask him if that means I’m fit for a 50-something year old… I look around the room and my eyes snag on a “before” picture of someone clearly representing an average customer and possibly about my age. Its not a good look. “And what exactly does that mean anyway? Does that mean it’s based on the average over 50 yr old? And have you looked at the average 50 year old lately?” He remains calm in the face of my mounting hysteria and self-doubt, and reassures me I’m in pretty good shape. I finish a dummy run of my new gym routine feeling like I’ve taken a significant step forward in my training already. In fact I leave feeling pretty pleased with myself. “How hard can this be?” I wonder as I drive away. About then I realise I’ve just driven out the NO EXIT ramp of the carpark onto a busy highway nearly causing an accident. The polite couple in the other car swerve aside, stop and point out the sign I have failed to see, which is about the size of a movie screen, and I apologise for my mistake. I drive away, backwards, feeling less smug.

Thursday 31^st March:

Only 30 days to go. I take my dog for her usual walk, which is an hour of bush walking, and we make it brisk. I’ve also added wrist weights for added measure. I begin my Personal Training sessions next week, but its up to me to go to the gym and exercise on at least 2 other days a week by myself, too. So I get my diary out and make appointments with myself at the gym on 2 other days a week as well as my appointments with Rawiri, starting tomorrow. I figure that if I treat appointments with myself the same way as I do with other people, I’ll certainly show up, and on time.

Friday 1^st April:

I have an appointment with myself at the gym, so I race off to be on time, and feel a satisfaction in doing that. I realise I’ve committed the faux pas of not bringing a towel with which to mop up the sweat I’ll soon be dripping everywhere, according to gym tradition. I don’t break a sweat until its time to leave and I almost make the same mistake of driving down the NO EXIT ramp again, and the whole experience flashes once more before my eyes. I back up – armpits getting damper by the nanosecond - and try again, but it seems this carpark has no way out of it. I execute a 3 point turn in every dark, dead end corner on every level, dodging the same shoppers with their trolleys several times on different storeys until I find the way out, and I finally leave the building with as much dignity as I can muster.

Saturday 2^nd April:

I take the dog for her usual walk, but feel inspired to run this time. The run we do has lots of steps, tree roots and rocks so I must concentrate, but the harbour scenery is wonderful so I stop to enjoy it at a place I’ve dubbed “lesbian corner”. (It’s another story, but you probably guessed that you see some interesting sights if you hang out in secluded parts of the park enough times.) I plan my cycle training in my head as I run. I’ve only been out on the bike 3 times in the past 2 months, but I tell myself running is a pretty good supplement if you go for at least half an hour at a time. So I run for precisely half an hour – not a second more. But I’m still in the dark about the ride itself. I need to know how long the days are, the type of surface we’ll be riding on, etc but still no one is giving me straight answers. However I suspect we will be in for a decent effort because I’m hearing words like “100 k days” and “tough riding” sprinkled in the conversation whenever I talk to my riding mates over the Tasman puddle. They’re organising this trip, and I’m going along for the ride – as they say. (But am I being taken for a ride…?) Perhaps a more fitting metaphor would be “like a lamb to the slaughter”. (I feel like one.) Or “with friends like these…”

Sunday 3^rd April:

It’s time to increase our distances on the bike. Jan and I have a base level of fitness that allows us to do 40 ks of hill training more or less anytime. This time we plan to do 50 ks with hills and to get off the road before the Sunday morning traffic builds up. We set off in the pre-dawn glow, rolling our ride vests up higher round our necks to shut out the cold wind we are generating by our own movement through the 10 degree night air. 5 ks down the road my back tyre blows, and we spend 45 minutes trying to find the hole in the half-light, repairing it, and pumping it up again. By this time the sun is an orange ball of fire appearing from behind the hills we are about to climb, and we are in the line of sun-strike. And we’re sharing the road with dozens of early morning boaties keen hit the boat ramp, which is also on the other side of those hills. The day turns out to be one of those perfect I’m-so-glad-to-be-alive moments. We stop at Kawakawa Bay to buy something to eat from the diary by the beach. We chat to some guys taking a break from their motorbikes, and upon hearing that I’m an interior designer one of them tells me about the new place he’s just bought. It’s an old historic bank, with a very old locked safe in it. He gets a safe specialist in to open it, and inside there are several deeds of title rolled up, secured with red ribbon. He’s given a large sum of dough to keep quiet about it, and thereby ends up buying the whole building for only ten grand. I love hearing stories like that. I listen with rapt attention. I’m stuffing my mouth with Easter eggs and banana so I can’t interrupt anyway. Meanwhile seagulls wheel overhead against a brilliant blue sky, and gleaming sunlight scatters into millions of glittering diamonds from the horizon right to our feet. The air is refreshingly cool, and yet the sun is warm on our backs. What a perfect day for a ride!

Monday 4^th April:

Today I have an appointment with Rawiri for my first Personal Training session at Club Physical. I’m unaware that he’s been creating ways to take me to the limits of my physical strength - but I’m about to find out. The session involves a lot of rushing without stopping from one activity to another, weights, stamina, core muscle groups, and back again doing it all again continuously so that I have the experience of my mind being several seconds behind my body. He tells me no more than I need to know at any time, so I am blissfully unaware of what I’m in for, and I’m kept so busy I don’t realise what I’m doing until I’ve done it. The 30 minutes fly by. I can’t honestly say what I’ve been doing for the last half an hour, but my abdominal muscles give me a few clues later. This evening I walk, rather than run the dog, and we enjoy the harbour view at a sensible pace all the way this time. After that workout, I deserve it. (I promise myself I’ll run next time.)

Tuesday 5^th April:

This is my designated rest day. I’m tired but satisfied after the last six days of increased activity, all on levels. In just under a week I have increased my riding distance, joined the gym, am running more and added wrist weights to my walking. That’s quite a lot.

Wednesday 6^th April:

My second P.T.session at Club Physical… Rawiri has another completely different session planned for me. This time we move around from room to room more, and I have to run from one activity to the next so there’s no resting. I keep tripping on those raised floors that take the thump of constantly pounded treadmills, but he pretends not to notice. While he’s adjusting the equipment he makes me run right round the perimeter of the gym through the small side rooms and a corridor, and back as fast as I can. Apart from wasting time getting lost in a cupboard I did quite well for speed, apparently.

Thursday 7^th April:

This isn’t supposed to be a rest day, but I’m knackered. I need a rest so I don’t do any exercise today. Not even a walk. Its OK, I’m not going to give myself a hard time over it. Guilt won’t get me any closer to my goals. Instead I go shopping for high protein foods, with lots of veges and soy milk, being sure to avoid the Easter eggs. I have been eating compromised meals, mainly due to getting out of the habit of cooking for others. It’s time to sort that one out too.

Friday 8^th April:

I’m due to meet myself at the gym again today, so I leave in time to make the appointment. I do the workout Rawiri has written in my personal workout booklet. Its fairly easy to do, but not so easy that I want to make it harder either. Rawiri has it just right for me. Afterwards I feel like running so I take the dog and we do our usual run together by the harbour. I make a mental note of how long its taking so I can notice any improvements to my time, or add some more minutes on when I get fit enough to do them. Right now I’m happy with running for half an hour, with a ten minute power walking warm up before and a ten minute slow walking warm down after.

Saturday 9^th April:

I have another appointment with myself at the gym, so I get there to meet myself on time again. After my workout I realise as I reach the car in the basement car park that I’ve left my card somewhere in the gym. I know I haven’t put it back in the box under my name. But I’m too tired to face climbing those stairs again. I figure someone will see it and hand it in. By the time I get home I tell myself I should be running again today, so I put in another half hour effort, but somewhere during the first ten minutes my legs ask my mind to change that plan and suddenly walking seems like a better option. I take no notice, and my stronger self takes over the rest of the run, which I manage to do in even faster time than yesterday. I manage this by playing the “What If” game. What if I’m an avatar right now? If I was an avatar I’d bound effortlessly through the undergrowth on strong, nimble, athletic legs (that just happen to be blue, striped like a zebra and adorned with a long tail). It works. But my knees are jelly by the time I make it home. I run a bath and relax the lactic acid out of my muscles in comfort. I realise that I haven’t had a drink of alcohol for days. I don’t want it. I feel half drunk from tiredness nearly every night anyway. I notice my Mawson Trail Ride Guide has come in my e-mail inbox. I print it out and read it late at night in bed while sipping a hot cocoa. O.M.G!!! Frightening words like “single file cycle tracks’ and “legs like iron” leap off the pages at me (all 28 of them), but I still don’t really know what to expect, because there’s no graph or elevations. I need a map. I need some sleep. I actually NEED A MIRACLE! But first I get out of bed and check my legs in the mirror. They don’t look like legs of iron.

Sunday 10^th April:

I’m supposed to be riding today, but I’m tired. Tired, tired, tired. Instead I meet a lovely friend I haven’t seen for a while and we walk along the beach with our dogs while they frolic in the sand together. Very civilised. Very restful. And good for the soul.

Monday 11^th April:

P.T. Session three. Rawiri has yet another tortuous session planned for me, involving a lot of running up and down stairs. And that’s just while I’m taking a break from the really hard stuff. “Come on, you can do it…!” he says over and over. (He’s very convincing.) The goal is to increase my core body strength as well as my stamina, and so far he’s found ways that I have never heard of. I’m somehow balancing on a Swiss ball while lifting weights and concentrating on keeping my back straight, tummy in, and shoulders back. I’m surprised he doesn’t get me to juggle a smaller Swiss ball between my toes because they’re the only parts of my body doing nothing. They’re just sitting there inside my shoes, and somehow compared to the rest of me they suddenly feel lazy, like they’re not pulling their weight. I become obsessed by all ten of them. It’s a lot to think about, and once more the 30 minutes skim past in mere moments.

Tuesday 12^th April:

My designated rest day. I’m enjoying the time out. And I don’t feel guilty that I had 3 rest days last week, instead of 1 either. Well it was my first week! And this is a new week full of new possibilities. Clean slate and all that…

Wednesday 13^th April:

P.T. session 4 with Rawiri. He’s giving me everything he can think of to take me to my limits of physical strength. I’m lying on my back with barbell weights hovering over me on swaying arms. Just five more? Staring up at them, I think on about number four, they’ll come crashing down and separate my head from my body. Or at least ruin the rest of my day. How does he actually know that I’m silently scanning my mind and body once again for those last reserves of strength - but this time coming up with a “maybe not” answer? He must know because its at that precise moment that he reaches down, takes the weight and gets me to jump up and rush onto the next thing before I have another moment to dwell on it. He has me doing more impossible feats, like passing a Swiss ball from my feet to my hands while lying flat on my back, and then over the top of my head using straight arms to almost touch – but not quite – the floor, and then back again to my feet where the ball must almost but not quite touch the floor using my legs in a fully extended position. Several times - over and over. I begin to wobble, losing strength and control on my fifth one. I wonder out loud which part of me isn’t working properly, when he says “well, we smashed your abs (his words) doing the first half of this session, and you are doing advanced core body work now. So you should be feeling proud of what you can do, not frustrated.” Music to my ears. Is this why people fall in love with their personal trainers? They rescue them at the eleventh hour, thereby taking on hero status, and say all the right things to make you feel like you can do anything, thereby adding that glow of seeing yourself in your full potential in the same way that a lover does. Hard to beat that combination…Perhaps a personal trainer is a good substitute for the real thing. (Just ask a certain well-known TV presenter here in NZ. It was enough to take her from her kids and husband and suddenly become a lesbian. Go figure…  Maybe I just did.) Most people choose chocolate. Interesting concept though. Perhaps I will test this theory some more. I mean the part about the chocolate, not the other. I can finally see a scientific reason for eating chocolate on a regular basis. Afterwards I decide to take the dog for a run, only she’s had so much exercise lately that she doesn’t want to come with me. So I go alone. Perhaps she’s trying to tell me something. It seems weird.

Thursday 14^th April:

I decide to just walk today. The P.T. sessions have been taking it out of me, and I need an easy day so I walk for an hour at power walking speed. My dog is happy with this arrangement and so am I for now. I notice my posture has improved, especially around my stomach and I’m walking taller. I have coffee with a friend and he points to a women’s magazine cover featuring 4 of our top world-class sports women at an awards ceremony, dressed in shoulderless evening gowns. He stabs a finger at each one. FOUR. GOOD. REASONS. NOT-TO-OVERTRAIN. I take a closer look. They are looking rather thin, lined about the face, and displaying muscles kind of bolted on to those gaunt arms and shoulders. “They look like pre-pubescent boys wearing red lipstick. Don’t loose those lovely womanly curves”, he says to me. Yeah right. Like that’s going to happen. I’m hardly in danger. I don’t carry the sense of determination in my soul to generate those particular lines of exertion about the mouth and eyes. I’m too lazy. I lack proper discipline. Besides, I haven’t changed a bit. I know. I weighed myself this morning.

Friday 15^th April:

I have that usual Friday appointment with myself at the gym, so I go and I’m happy to find myself there. The half that’s already there is pleased to see me arrive on time too. It’s a good arrangement, but soon I realise that I’ve lost my workout card. It’s gone. No one has handed it in. I blame myself, but I can’t decide which me it is that’s been careless enough to lose it, or which me was too lazy to go back for it, for that matter. The argument doesn’t last too long though, mainly because it’s all too confusing. Besides its impossible to get too philosophical while your body is getting a thorough workout - again. I think I’m on the brink of a fitness breakthrough. That felt easy. I follow the gym workout with a run - nothing different distance-wise, and no faster either. But I feel good.

Saturday 16^th April:

I’m getting good at this. I’m on time once more. I meet myself at the gym for my normal work out. This workout is getting too easy for me, so I move the weights up one, two or even three notches. I once again get mixed up while trying to leave the carpark, and so I make a point of watching what happens to other people. I notice there are lots of drivers who want to go out the way they came in (it’s only natural after all and there’s no other daylight in sight) but then I see that the design has been cunningly set up to divert you at the last possible moment through the Burger King drive through. Its either the drive through, or backing up (against a mounting queue behind) to find the way out (or going out the NO EXIT way like I did, which is a bit like going onto the motorway offramp when you want the onramp). And I saw a lot of hesitation right at that point, with people looking left and right trying to work it all out. But here’s the thing. More than half of them went through the Burger King drive through. The exit isn’t marked at all. Clever huh?  Making myself unpopular (again) I back up to the hidden turn I keep missing, and drive home. I had planned to go for another run afterwards, but the rain spoils it for me before I set out, and I stay dry instead. I feel a bit lazy doing this, but it’s too cold to run in the rain. Winter has arrived.

Sunday 17^th April:

Jan and I decide to take our mountain bikes out for a spin. We are now aware we need to practice our off road skills, so we head out for a vast and empty forest growing out of acres of black sand dunes on Auckland’s harsh, inhospitable West Coast. It is well known as the go-to place if you suddenly find yourself with a dead body on your hands and a shovel in the boot of your car. We’ve never ridden here before, and we are road cyclists, not mountain bikers, so this is uncharted territory for us in more ways than one. The riding is difficult with a mix of soft sand that slips like satin beneath our tyres, pine needles, puddles, loose gravel, and slush. The hills at times are impossibly steep for the loose surface, and test our legs, as well as our patience. Never mind there are strange delights and distractions like the saucer sized bright orange mushrooms that at first glance look like amber traffic lights and have me reaching instinctively for my brakes. This is horse riding heaven, obviously. Not a shallow grave in sight - only a small scattering of very-much alive (and clearly happy to be so) humans clambering up impossibly high, soft sand dunes on fit-looking, sweating horses (who may not be sharing their joy at that moment - but I can’t speak for them) over the whole morning. But mostly we are alone in the forest, with only the deer bounding away from us further up the track and the faint roar of the sea carried to us on the wind above the trees to remind us where we are – riding in a secluded oasis of calm on Auckland’s wild and windy west coast. But do I detect a faint frisson of social discord each time we offer a cheery “Good Morning!!!” to our fellow riders? Are they looking down on us because they’re high up on great big horses? Or are they looking down at us? We soon find out. A rider slows her horse to talk to us. We are in the wrong part of the forest. This part is the designated horse-riding part. Cyclists several kilometres that way. Woops.

Monday 18^th April:

P.T. session number five. I’ve been on this training schedule for 19 days now. Rawiri tells me he will be doing some tests to measure my improvements on Wednesday, our sixth P.T. session. Meanwhile we are committed to keeping up the good work, and we get straight into it. No time for small talk today because he’s in charge of my breathing (keep breathing, yes that’s it… in – out…) while moving me up to more difficult exercises. I make the mistake of saying “that wasn’t so bad” (or “thhhaaaaat whaaaaasn so-baaaa…”) after the first set, so he makes the whole thing harder again. And again. Yet somehow I manage it all – with a little help from an unseen hand taking the weight every now and then. I can feel yesterday’s ride in my legs, but its OK because he knows this, so most of today is working on the upper body. (Rawiri clearly knows his stuff.) I’ve already been for a pre-dawn power walk today, in order to fit it into my day - so no run this time.

Tuesday 19^th April:

Day 20. Rest day. I treat myself to a cream doughnut. Not sure whether to enjoy it or feel guilty about it. I tell myself it’s a reward. Test day tomorrow. I wonder if I’ve got any measurable results to show for the past three weeks…?

Wednesday 20^th April:

Only 9 days before I get on a plane…! And there’s a lot to do between now and then, believe me! P.T. session number five reveals that I haven’t changed my weight but my fat folds are smaller. In other words I am replacing fat with muscle. And as muscle weighs more, I must be improving. This is good news. The pain Rawiri has been inflicting on me has been worth it then. As a reward Rawiri gets me into a pair of boxing gloves so I can hook into him doing upper cuts, side swipes, under cuts, mean cuts, lean cuts and every other kind of punch he can get me to do in rapid-fire sets, in ever-changing patterns. He walks backwards holding up the pads, and I follow and try to keep up with his ever-changing instructions and those forever-moving pads.  He keeps me on my toes in more ways than one. I’m not sure whether my arms gave in before my mind lost concentration or visa versa. I should have tried the “what if” game pretending to be Mohammed Ali, but I didn’t think of it. Next time! Took the dog for a run straight after and added 5 minutes on. Felt really good. I must be getting fitter! This is most encouraging. Especially after only three weeks. I know I couldn’t have done this alone. It occurs to me that getting a personal trainer is like getting in a designer. A professional approach will usually yield better results than a DIY effort. As they say, you don’t know what you don’t know.