Fatty on a treadmill!

So despite having more tyres than the Michelin Man, Fatty does actually own a gym membership! The other day I decided to stop using it as an ice scraper for the car and actually go. So I donned my ever so sexy, clings to all the wrong places tracksuit and hit the gym floor. Now it is true; the gym is for everyone (anyone who’s got £40 quid a month to dribble out of their purses). However certain areas of the gym are only for the elite fitties: the weight room, the class room, the sauna, the steam room, any area where there is a mirror present and above all the lounge area where the snack machines are (because Lord almighty dare a fatty be seen to be eating!) So the shy, the fat and the ugly are limited to the main floor and cowering in the toilets shamefully.
I head straight for the cross trainer, wanting an overall workout (and to watch eastenders on the mini TV they handily attach to it). Whoever invented this machine is a genius; it burns off calories much faster than most other gym torture devices, is fairly kind to out of shape bodies and even at a leisurely pace it looks like your doing a lot. I stay on long enough to ease my guilt over paying a small fortune for something I hardly use and this turns out to be about 20 minutes. I’m all ready to do my traditional glance at the activities board (as if I will ever do a class?!) and then dip in the pool (which is much more floating than swimming for me). But a strange thing happens; the cheesy motivating music hits me, my pace slows as I notice an old fart on a treadmill next to me and I suddenly think “I can do better than him!”. Suddenly I’m on the treadmill with no one to stop me and I’m away! Well, I say away, I’m actually meandering at the pace of a geriatric dog with arthritis but I accidently hit the speed button and I have to power walk (turn out this just means walking fast enough to go all red and puffy like a lobster). After a few minutes where I thought my legs may roll from under me I get the hang of it. Minutes go past, I’m am picturing that summer bikini.... Then I notice the old fart who got me on this thing is now jogging! Bumfluff! I must out do him! I hit the seed button again and suddenly am clinging to the handle bars as I attempt to do something I don’t even do for a bus these days: run! The adrenaline kicks it and I’m stunned I can even run, which keeps me at it. I think this must be what its like for a prepubescent boy discovering his willy; I keep up the motion to see what will happen. Well turns out after a few minutes I nearly collapse from lack of oxygen and dire worry of being the idiot who fell over on the treadmill. Plus, thankfully, the old fart has buggered off to shame some other overweight twenty something into doing a bit more than she’d like. I really should have bought him a drink thank him...