I joined a gym. Again.

Apparently, I’m a person who enjoys paying for the privilege of being uncomfortable before sunrise.

I’ve always been relatively active. At 16, I was playing badminton three times a week and taking aerobics once a week. I loved the feeling, and it was addictive.

Then, at 18, I decided to move 250 miles away from home and my enthusiasm for exercise waned somewhat. I had a new city to discover, and I spent all my spare time exploring magnificent London.

Much more exciting than a rowing machine.

Now I’ve just turned 50 and, after having gym memberships sporadically over the years, I’ve finally got back to it.

I won’t lie, it’s a struggle and although I’m still fit, I’m just not as fit as I used to be so I’m doing something about that.

I’ve made a commitment to myself to go at least once a week. For me, that’s reasonable because, after joining and spending the first month going to the gym three times a week, it began to take over my life. Getting up at 4:30am was exhausting and it turns out enthusiasm has limits.

So, on Monday mornings, I prepare for battle.

The 4:30am Negotiation

The alarm goes off and I force myself to keep my eyes open.

Then comes the negotiation. Should I snooze for another 10 minutes? How about half an hour? Perhaps I should go tomorrow instead? Tomorrow is, after all, a perfectly good day.

Eventually, I force myself out of my cosy, warm bed and grab a quick coffee. There’s no ceremony, no leisurely morning routine, just caffeine and damage control.

There’s a wash, a brush, clothes on and out the door before my brain has enough time to intervene.

Because that’s the trick, really.

Don’t think.

Thinking is where things go wrong.

If I start thinking too much about how tired I am, how warm the bed is, how cold it is outside or how absolutely unnecessary this all feels, I’m finished. My brain is extremely persuasive at 4:30am and frankly, it has some very good arguments.

At the Gym

Once I’m actually there, which is always the hardest part, everything else is basically a formality.

It’s the same rotation every time.

My Ritual

Weights — because I’m going to be stronger.

The rowing machine — possibly the most efficient piece of equipment in the entire building for me. I could row for hours.

The treadmill – set to steepish. Not steep. Not flat. Steepish – a perfectly reasonable incline designed to remind me that I made this decision voluntarily.

The ski machine – I find this more effective than the weights. My arms scream at my after just 3 minutes but it’s getting easier.

The bike – The bit where I can sit down and just move my legs. Honestly, by this point, sitting down feels like a reward.

Here’s the thing. I actually love it once I’m there and I always feel better afterwards.

There’s something quite satisfying about sitting there sweaty, slightly delirious knowing I’ve actually done it. I did the thing. Nobody made me. I got myself out of bed at an hour when most sensible people are still asleep and I survived.

For me, the gym isn’t about being glamorous. I’m not one with designer gear on, I’m the one with an un-ironed tshirt, cropped joggers that I’ve had for years and my hair is thrown into a bobble. That works for me and it’s about proving to myself, once a week at the very least, that tired, unglamorous, bad-hair-day me can still get out the door and that feels pretty good because getting older doesn’t mean giving up. It just means becoming slightly more creative about how the body is persuaded to cooperate.

So yes, it’s love-hate. Mostly hate at 4:30am but the love wins eventually.

I keep going back because I’m the most important person in my life and if I’m not functioning, fit or healthy, I can’t be the best version of myself and if I’m not the best version of myself, I can’t support the people I love as well as I want to and if that means occasionally dragging myself into a gym at 4:30am, so be it.

Although, for the record, I do reserve the right to complain about it.