So Round 2 day 1. I was there. Where were you all? Rolled out of bed after another shit night’s sleep and dragged my broken arse to the gym. Spent 30 minutes on the bike sitting in zone 3, cos I hate zone 2 training, then some body weight and light strength training just to get a feel for it again. It was good. The ankle handled it surprisingly well.
I fly out tomorrow morning at 6am so not sure how I will fit it in but may see if I can get access to the facilities at the 5 star resort which does include a space that is loosely referred to as a gym, so I can keep up the movement.
So this next ‘adjustment’ isn’t new me. It isn’t about starting something new at all. It’s about reclaiming something I lost when I broke my bloody ankle.
For most of my life, exercise hasn’t been something I did. It’s been part of who I am. An integral part.
I started working out when I was about 14 or 15. Back then, I wasn’t old enough to drive, so my poor mother would get herself out of bed at 5am and take me to the gym before school. This was before she developed her own gym addiction. She’d drop me off, head to work, then come back and collect me (and occasionally my workout buddy, when she remembered to get out of bed) in time to get us to school.
Somewhere along the way, I became addicted.
I also accepted early on that I was never going to be skinny in the catwalk-model sense. Instead, I’ve always focused on being fit AF. Strength, fitness, body composition and what my body can do have mattered more to me than the number on the scales or the size on a clothing label.
No matter where I’ve lived or what I’ve been doing, exercise has been a constant. And for anyone who’s never seen me after a workout, let’s just say I’m a red-hot fucking mess. I’m not one of those people who goes to the gym to leisurely pedal a bike while reading a magazine. If I’m not sweating and my muscles aren’t screaming, it barely counts.
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Then I broke my ankle.
At about five weeks post-injury, I probably could have gone back and done upper-body training. But the truth is, it wasn’t just my ankle that was suffering. My whole body felt exhausted. The thought of smashing out an arm workout and then hobbling around on crutches afterwards wasn’t exactly appealing. Plus, I’ve already got broad shoulders. There was a genuine concern I might end up looking like one of those gym dudes who skipped leg day once too often.
So I stopped.
Completely.
For almost ten weeks I have done very little. Minimal walking. No gym. No structured exercise. Nothing.
What surprised me most was that I didn’t struggle nearly as much as I thought I would.
Turns Out I Might Be Full of Shit
I’ve always described exercise as my stress relief. If I missed a workout, I’d get tired, grumpy, and convince myself I needed to train the following day. But having all this time to sit and think has made me wonder whether that story was entirely true.
Maybe what I interpreted as a need for exercise was actually guilt.
The guilt of missing a session created anxiety, and going to the gym got rid of the anxiety. But perhaps it wasn’t the workout that relieved it. Maybe it was simply removing the guilt of not going.
Damn. That’s metacognition at its finest.
Don’t get me wrong. I missed it. I found it difficult watching people run around doing things I would normally join in with but physically couldn’t. I missed the routine. I missed the idea of going to the gym. Most of all, I struggled with the sudden abundance of time and the lack of things I was allowed to do.
I worked a lot. In fact, I worked until people started threatening to confiscate my computer because I wasn’t supposed to be working.
And when I wasn’t working, I read.
A lot. Then I took up writing and here we are.
I still wake up by 4.30am most mornings but I have noticed (current sleeping challenges aside) that I’m not as exhausted by the end of the day as I used to be. Whether that’s because I’m not exercising, not working full-time, or not drinking alcohol, I genuinely don’t know.
Which is why I’m looking forward to testing the theory.
Return of the Sweaty Mess
I’m now four weeks out of cast.
The day the doctor removed it, my first question was, “When can I go back to the gym?”
His answer was straightforward: when I felt ready. The conditions were equally straightforward: body-weight strength training only and no running. So, in combination with the wise words of my physio to stay ‘within reason’, I’m back.
Despite not smashing out a full HYROX session today, I worked up a light sweat. My muscles are currently letting me know they did, in fact, do something, and there’s a mild ache brewing. I’m just hoping it doesn’t turn into full-scale, can’t-get-off-the-toilet mutiny tomorrow.
My best-laid plan for the next three weeks is to break the weekly content down like this:
- Early Week: We’ll look at the habit and the role it plays in my life—including a deep reflection into my psyche (brace yourselves).
- Mid-Week: The science stuff (with kid gloves on). We’ll look at training at my current life stage (yes, the delightful almost-fad-craze that is perimenopause), exercise habits, motivation, recovery, and whether I’ve just spent twenty years successfully guilt-tripping myself into training.
- End of Week: The “Dear Diary” entries. This is where I’ll give you updated stats, training progress, motivation, exhaustion levels (and spontaneous tears), and whatever other random data I decide to track so we can see if theory matches reality.
A quick disclaimer, however: unfortunately, I don’t see the co-pilot along for this flight just yet, so we may not get to track his HRV – unless a bit of reverse psychology / peer pressure does the trick.
Either way, I’m ready.
My ankle seems cautiously optimistic.
My muscles are already filing complaints.
Round 2. Day 1. Let’s see what happens.