Back to the Gym

Today, Fisher introduced me to the happy, happy joy that is The Yasso. For those who don't know what a Yasso is (a little piece of oblivion I will never get back), it involves running fast for 2 laps of a running machine's lap cycle, then allowing yourself a little breather before doing it again. And again. And, it turns out, again. 2 laps is half a mile, and I started off at a pace of 10mph. Yes, that's 10mph.

That lasted for approximately 20 seconds, until I dropped down to a more sensible but still vile pace, around the 9mph mark. This lasted about a minute, until I dropped down again, and finished my first half mile in around 3.45. This, according to Fisher, was a little too fast. So I tackled the second set of laps at around the 8.5mph mark, dropping down as I grew increasingly boggle-eyed. The last two sets were more around the 7.5 mark, then the 6.5 mark - but the slowest I did a set of laps was 4.19, so I was quite pleased. I don't know whether I should be, and frankly, I don't care - I was utterly pooped, but felt like I'd had a very good 20 minute workout, covering 2 miles. Then, as we only had 5 minutes left post semi-recovery, I did a round of weights, each just one set of 12 reps:

Lat pull down on 35kg
Biceps curls on 30kg
Stomach cruncher on 10 (50kg?)
Horizontal leg lift on 120kg
Triceps toner on 15kg (I was dead, by this point)

Then we went home and Fisher cooked us lovely pasta. Earlier today we had a tremendous café experience with Blarney, who was in Dundee for a meeting, involving a cooked Scottish breakfast, 3 cappucinos, a slice of chocolate cake, and a good old yammer lasting about an hour and a half. I was supposed to go into M&S and get a bra measured afterwards, but I couldn't be buggered. I was pretty tired, despite doing nothing yesterday except going to Edinburgh and watching the Champions' League final with Arrow, Spartan and Protagoras, who fell asleep just before the penalty shoot out. It was much fun, involving much beer and some delicious chicken pasta cooked by Spar, who is a fine chef (good job, or the SparBlar family would swiftly starve to death - or at least develop both rickets and beriberi from Blarney's Chinese takeaway diet).

Needless to say, I have done no work in ages, so tomorrow is definitely dedicated to my massage course. I'm not sure I'm going to be able to provide the promised home baking for the marathon runners, but I'll see what I can do. Where does time go? How the fuck did I get to be 31? Surely I was 17 only yesterday?

Brrrrhhhhhh! Perish the thought.