I had grand plans to wake at five thirty this morning. Instead, I was woken at six, by a grizzly Felix. I stumbled to his room, picked him up, flopped back down on the spare bed and cuddled him to sleep. Until he woke again at eight. Quite unheard of to enjoy a sleep-in of late. It just happened to be the morning I was set to get my training regime back on track.
It has been over four months since I took part in any form of proper exercise. There have been excuses galore. Clingy toddler, feeling tired, feeling sick, feeling flat, weather too cold, weather too wet, don't have time, I'll do it tomorrow... the next day... next week. Then as time draws on, enthusiasm wanes and before I realise, I've convinced myself that exercise is not for me. But I know deep down, that is not the case. And I also know it only takes the right kind of exercise to bring me back to life.
So after much consideration... and a far later start than I had planned... I took on an old nemesis. The stairs. Scott and I used to conquer these stairs many moons ago. We lived just around the corner from them and we'd race each other up and down, until we could barely breathe. Quite possibly the most punishing set of steps I've ever taken on. Heading down offers a certain amount of respite. Going up on the other hand, is torture. I'm not even sure how many there are, though it would be in the vicinity of two hundred. They're steep and nasty and turned my legs to jelly, after my long hiatus from the fitness scene. Afterwards was worth it though. Four sets completed in total, a million dollar view at the top and I felt exhausted, but good. Real good.