Nineteen The Covid Diaries – Joe Wick

Today I did the 30 minute Joe Wick workout.  Yes I know, I succumbed. Well it was either that or running up and down the stairs, which is so uninspiring. Besides I’m starting to feel lardy, sort of inert, the living embodiment of a suet pudding.  So I needed to do something and everyone else is doing Joe Wick. Now 30 minutes doesn’t sound too bad, especially as there’s a reasonable break between each routine. First came the  warm up , stretching, bending, gently pushing your body to the edges of its flexibility.  The problem with this is that firstly I realise just how decrepit and inflexible I’ve become and secondly after the warm up I was already breathing heavily. So the exercises begin and I’m going at it reasonably well, starting to feel muscles working that haven’t  seen action for decades.  Five exercises in and I’m breathing heavily and can feel my heart thumping a bass rhythm. I keep going and Joe has got me bouncing like a rabbit, paws up.  This bloke is somewhat annoying, he has that inane chatty style, of the person in the group who just won’t shut up, constantly speaking, but not saying anything.  I’m now puffing, a wheezing steam train, and Joe cheerily pipes up, “we’re half way there!”  Half way, you’re kidding me! I’m bent over double, gasping for breath.  Is this supposed to be encouragement?  Still I persevere, forcing myself to do frog jumps and sit ups, muscles are telling me to stop in my sides, my shoulders, the front of my thighs and my back. “Just six more exercises to go!” Even Joe is catching his breath. “Six! I’m dying here.”  Somehow I force myself on, I’m clawing at the air as if climbing a rope, while running on the spot, now I’m on all fours, a sprinter at the start line, pumping my legs back and forth. Oh help, I’m bending over arms windmill like alternately touching my feet. “Three more to go!”  I’m gasping for air, a drowned man coming up for the third time.  “The second to last one!”  There are muscles in my thighs which are letting me know that soon they will refuse to work.  “The last one, give it all you’ve got!”  I do, raising legs of lead, punching unseen foe, and using up those last ounces of energy.  “That’s it, it’s over!”  Just shut up you cheery bastard, can’t you see I’m dying here?  I’m on all fours panting and trembling, and that’s a workout for everyone, I wonder?  What are they doing, trying to finish us off?  It’s 5 hours later and I’m still knackered, and aching all over, but strangely I’m looking forward to doing it again tomorrow, maybe minus  Joe Wick.