So I’ve done it once and then I just did it again, and I can’t say I like it at all.  Not even a little.  I ran on the treadmill for twentyfuckingminutes and then walked for ten, and all I can say is Thanks Be and Amen to Richard Fidler, for without his podcasts, all would be lost.

It started out well, the new slippers runners were strangely comfortable, and of course treadmills are the friend of the unfit and the uncoordinated, so I did a Clayton’s Run on one of those.  In my garage.  In Queensland.  Three things:  1. It’s bloody hot.  2. Our garage is a tip and a dumping ground for all things that will be useful one day, and  3. It’s bloody hot.

So not only did I purchase special shoes for running, (because clearly my actual feet can’t manage that by themselves) that were potentially made by small brown fingers in places I will never go, I decided that this running had to be done inside, on a treadmill.  Clearly, outside where there is fresh air, and nature-y things will not do.  The problem is, running in my garage with only the detritus of a family-of-four to look at is uninspiring.  Especially when I am reminded of those clever little fingers with every cushioned step.  So a podcast of distraction was in order, which required Apps and downloading and iCloud and headphones and an arm band to hold it all.  Finally I was away, off on my journey of a thousand steps with the soothing rounded tones of Richard and friends, Baz, Jee Hyun Kim, David Gillespie, Peter Cosgrove to keep me company.  An endless dinner party of interesting.

I ran and ran and ran in big, bounding steps, for I had decided to mark my progress in kilometres, and the treadmill clocks them up regardless of whether you are actually on it or not.  BoundBoundJumpBoundBoundSide equals two hundred metres.  And so it went, for at least seven hundred metres, when I found the next obstacle: hot.  And sweat.  Not sweet, glistening-pretty sweat, but big, gross drops of stink.

So I opened the bar fridge (which contained enticingly crisp-looking bottles of golden reward) and set up a fan right nearby, as a remedy.  It worked a bit, so I ran along on my mouse-wheel for twenty minutes and then walked until the sweat dried into wiggly salty lines on my clothes.  My big spongy shoes making a big carbon footprint.

Now it is all done, all I can think (other than “Would anyone notice if I drank one of those beers for lunch?”) is this: IS THIS IT?  I feel like shit.  The exercise people are all liars.  This is NOT fun.  This is NOT energising.  I’m all shaky and muzzy in the head and grumpy and WHERE ARE MY ENDORPHINS?  I was DEFINITELY promised endorphins.

I need a good lie down.  Someone bring me one of those beers.