I never understood people who enjoy high-intensity exercise. Wine – yes. Films – obviously. Model trains – whatever floats your boat. But exercise? I didn’t get it. I wept on reformer pilates machines and left circuits classes halfway through under the guise of going to the toilet. I went to the park with the intention of running and instead lay down in the grass with a Cornetto. I pleaded illness – and once, the death of a fictional pet – to waive class cancellation fees. Exercise just wasn’t for me.
And it’s not as if I didn’t try. I attempted swimming and barre, power yoga and boxing – all of it hellish, not to mention inaccessibly expensive. When I walked past a certain glass-fronted gym near my flat, invariably with some sort of snack in my hand, I felt a pang of pity for the people inside – sweaty, muscled prisoners, unable to free themselves from the tyranny of the treadmill.
