It all started with good intentions. I packed my running shoes, socks, jog bra, sweats and sweatshirt. It took up, as always, half my suitcase. We arrived at Heathrow, with no sleep, at 7 a.m. We were scheduled for an Open Gym workout at 10 a.m. By the time we got to The Hotel Florence (aka Anthony's sister's gorgeous flat), we had enough time for unpacking, changing, brewing several lattes on their plumbed double-boiler espresso machine (praise god!) and to head off to the local park.
I fancy myself pretty sporty. However, jet-lagged as I was and with no sleep for 34-ish hours, I felt like I was having a bad dream. The class was circuit training. 8 or 10 little areas with their torture equipment, so-called weights and jump ropes. Evil little things looked so small and harmless until we were asked to spend 2 minutes on each until all were executed.
As I don't care to relive my torment, let's just say I have been as sore rarely before.
From that workout it was a downward spiral of exercise routines. By the following Saturday's second Open Gym class - don't ask; I am a gluton for punishment - Anthony and I had gone for 1 full hour+ run and one 1 mile run. That last run was shortened by the stiff Dublin winds.
I'll tell you what we DID exercise: our ability to drink copious amounts of ale and stout, nose to tale dining, umbrellas.
How does the tale end? We returned home none the thinner, moved house the next day and within a week were both on our way into winter flus.
The score? The last 2 weeks, 4 runs.
Guess what folks? 15K this coming Saturday in Central Park! That should be fun.
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