In recent weeks, our COVID19 new normal has seen our opportunities to indulge in fitness-related activities dwindle faster than my early enthusiasm for a low-carb diet.
Unsurprisingly, gyms were the first to close, representing as they did a unique petri-dish of warm bodily secretions and bare hands that would rotate their way through equipment made of hard surfaces that are scientifically proven to keep the coronavirus alive for days. Notwithstanding the clear medical guidance not to touch anything above your neck, something about setting foot in a gym makes it fine to lay a small towel over the handlebars of an infrequently disinfected spin bike then use it to wipe your face.
Our running group was also eventually dismantled. One of the pillars of running group was the social aspect of sharing stories about inept colleagues, family fallouts and disastrous date nights – and shouting these pleasantries the requisite 1.5m didn’t have the same ‘what’s shared in run group stays in run group’ vibe. Everyone had forgotten about my regularly-exhibited exercise-induced-asthma that results in a hacky cough reminiscent of a two-pack-a-day smoker and I started to look conspicuously-covid in cool-down.
Personal training outside was gradually reduced from small groups to 1:1 training until it wasn’t OK, becoming on par with eating a kebab on a park bench.
Golf was cancelled, triggering my husband to dust off the Wii-fit and tackle the conundrum that is connecting up another tech device while our only techno-knowledgable teenager was sheltering in place with his mother, and challenge me to shots off a virtual driving range.
The interwebs are awash with new options to exercise whilst social distancing. I was not immune to the urgency to find alternatives. About one minute after I had finished hoarding toilet-paper, sauvignon blanc and pet supplies, I hit up Sportsmart for a clutch of kettlebells, dumbbells, an exercise mat and a bench, creating a makeshift indoor gym in my study. Mentally trawling the vast investment I’ve made in personal training over the years, I smugly documented a series of snappy little routines that could be safely executed in-house, without co-mingling with covid. After overcoming the initial terror presented by a flat-pack bench that required me to wield both an allan-key and a spanner, my little haven for resistance training has been used exactly twice in the last three weeks of home detention and its most enthusiastic patron has been Lily the cat who has added the cushioned part of the weight bench to her collection of personal cat-scratching posts.
But I am not coming into this period unprepared.
Even before the current-era zoom yoga classes and subscription-based wellness programs, I was well-primed for exercising at home.
This goes WAY WAY WAY back to the period when I was remotely-leveraging-lycra, crucifying quads and hammering hamstrings before social distancing was even a thing.
May I present:
Aerobics Oz-Style.
I’m personally sad for anyone who didn’t get a chance to rock fat socks, high top sneakers, nude tights and high-cut fluoro.
Fast forward to the current era where you may, like me, be battling a declining metabolism, an increasing interest in day-drinking on weekends and a passion for carbs.
Here is my unsponsored, non-affiliated view of a few of the fitness apps that I’ve trialled.
Myfitnesspal
My love affair with myfitnesspal was red-hot.
Track your exercise. Check.
Link in with your exercising pals. Check.
Scare the crap out of your overindulgent eating by making you fess up to everything that went in your mouth. Check.
The sheer efficiently of scanning the barcodes of the stuff that you are eating. Check.
What you don’t want is to incur the wrath of a scorned myfitnesspal. It has every gaslighting, snarky, scorned-Tinder-guy vitriol that you don’t need in your life.
Leave your myfitnesspal unattended for a bit it gets really resentful about your lack of response and you will get this:
No one needs that kind of negativity.
Strava
I can’t help it, but I associate Strava with Lycra-clad middle aged cycling dudes who are usually interrupting my Beach Road runs with their unexpected shouty-ness, their non-compliance with traffic lights and their obsession with coffee shops en-route.
When our running group was forced to go virtual, we all agreed to converge on Strava as our app to co-mingle.
When I rustled up my logon, I found that I had last used Strava on our honeymoon in 2015. I think my Garmin had packed it in back then, so in an attempt to try to track calories-out vs the high cocktail-calories-in undertaking that is a honeymoon peppered by mojitos and wedding-cake-as-breakfast-dessert I’d hooked up with Strava.
As it turns out, my outdoor activity was terminated abruptly by a category 3 cyclone that hit the idyllic marina-fronted resort that I’d chosen as our honeymoon escape and caused us to bunker down in a dodgy concrete walled 3-star motel. No power, the freight-train sound of an impending cyclone, muddy water pouring in through the air conditioner and instructions to huddle in a festy bathroom away from the windows.
Between category-3 cyclones and covid19, unfortunately Strava has become my calamity app.
Dietbet
Dietbet is an intoxicating thing. You bet on your ability to lose 4% of your body weight in a 4 week period. Everyone coughs up an agreed dollar figure into the pool to start. If you win, you share in the pool that is subsidised by the losers. You weigh in initially, knowing that the more that your co-contestants fail, the greater the pool you share in if you win. It appeals to every slightly unpleasant part of my nature – my desire to beat people I don’t even know, my love of the punt, my drive to be a winner.
Unfortunately , my timing is off. I didn’t bet on my ability to lose weight in the period where I joined a ‘lose 9kgs in 6 weeks’ cult and actually freaking nailed it due to the existential angst I felt about being fat and turning 50. Instead I signed up in March, one week before a period where I’d be confined by a virus to home-cooked meals and the kind of scared-carb-scarfing that results from feeling nudged into an age bracket with higher covid19 mortality than the 40-49s.
My takeout?
I can still run, even if it means staying away from my favourite beach trails that seem awash with people who could be aerolising their covid19.
I’m now running uninspired laps of a suburban airport.
And I secretly know, that if I run without my watch, Strava need never know if I’m having an off day.