#bridgetbythebridge

#evenstronger

 

Not Olympian, Spartan.

 

Sometime late last year while basking in the dying rays of the sunshine of my thirties, I wrote about becoming strong, about taking control of myself and I recounted the propitious aftermath of half a year spent pre-dawn sweating in a gym. Six months later, I’ve taken it a bleeding, bruised step further. No longer content with just being strong, no longer content with boxing, MMA or weightlifting, now, like Gerard Butler before me, I am Spartan. #greekgoddess

  

Spartan Races, like Tough Mudder, Rat Race, Mud Run, Adrenaline Rush and all the other trademarks of this latest fad for fitness fanatics, involves running through a field and surmounting a series of increasingly difficult, painful, filthy, putrid obstacles. This is how the upwardly mobile cashed up, coked up City bankers get their rocks off these days. No longer happy with their 50 quid MANicures, MANscapes and Barber Shop Beard Braids, the boys need a way to prove that they are still Macho Macho Men, they need Maximus’ gladiatorial arena to show off their finely-hewn just-waxed sunbed-tanned torsos for the ladeez and remind themselves of what it feels like to be a totally awesome dude. #notthatimjudging 

I presume that when the biggest challenge of your average working day is whether to print in colour or print in black and white, crawling through a barbed wire tunnel restores your self-confidence, rebuilds your wife-whinging-eroded-ego and chafes your organically moisturised knees.

So that must be why Actual Real Life Royalty ran my most recent Spartan race, as in, they were 2 metres behind me, and they ran with me. #okBearwastheretoo

The Spartan Race is said to be unique (as per their Reebok-funded Marketing team) because they divide the year into three increasingly difficult races, the Sprint at 7km, the Super at 15km and then the Beast at 20km. Once you’ve completed all three, you have your Trifecta. I am now 2/3 of the way there. And I did it all with a manicure.

Can't do this one...

 

A week after I turned 40, I ran the Sprint in Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park with the majority of the staff from the gym. Most of them had on warrior face paint, some had on kilts, one had a Hipflask of Whisky, all of them were shouting and screaming like Spartan Warriors in the lead up to the start. #oncewerewarriors

Then along comes me…

Before you even start the race, just to enter the marshalling area, the very first thing you have to do is jump a 1.5m (5ft) wall. Doted with all the grace and elegance of a baby hippo doing the Haka, I approached said wall with caution and care. I launched myself over it; almost dissected my lady parts, straddled the wall on my inner thighs, and hit the concrete path below… right then…it can’t get worse than this…off we go. #onceateoreos

Well it can. And it did. 

Crawling on my elbows through sodden grass in a 12-inch high tunnel of electrified barbwire. Obviously that was designed for dudes. The race organisers forgot that girls with big bazongas would be dragging their nipples across the gravel. I did that.

Hauling logs, shouldering buckets of gravel, heaving 20kg medicine balls and sand bags up hill and down dale. I did that too. The singular advantage of being a girl in one of these races is that they let you carry half what the guys do. I’m stronger than most of the dudes, so the ‘carrying’ obstacles don’t bother me anywhere near as much as the climbing ones or the high ones…. the motherf**king high ones. #imnotasquirrel

 

Can do this one..

 

I clambered up the cargo net, gritting my teeth and gingerly placing each foot in a net hole. Then I swung my leg over the top and stopped. I was petrified, frozen with terror; I realised I was 8m (25ft) above ground, that the holes were big enough for me to fall through and there were people running through the arch way below. I could not move. I was shaking, trembling, adrenaline coursing through my limbs, I might have even peed a little.

But never fear, the Knight in Shining (Under) Armour* came to my rescue. He placed his hand around my ankle and held me tight. He looked into my eyes and he calmly placed my feet where they needed to go, he held my hand and reassured me that I was going to make it down, he was beside me every single step of the way and when I made it to the bottom he hugged me tight and told me he was proud. #youwanttopukedontyou #hecancooktoo #bridgetandbear 

We made it round the 7km course in an hour and a half. When I got to obstacles I couldn’t do like the Monkey Bars and the Rope Climb, I did the 30-Burpee penalty. I did it all and at the end, I jumped the fire pit that indicates you are home. The good people of Sparta, now sponsored by Reebok™, give you a Spartan-y T-shirt and a Spartan-y medal; they also give you a free Spartan-y beer and have food trucks serving Spartan-y food like Venison Burgers and whole raw suckling pig trotters. #okjustoneofthemistrue

I had accomplished something I had never even dreamed of only 11 months after the very first day I set foot in my gym. I was filthy, I was aching and bruised, I downed a bottle of wine and a bowl of chips that very afternoon. #Ihaventchangedthatmuch and what do you do when you achieve your goal? You tick it off the window list^ and make a new one.

 

Last weekend, we ran the Spartan Super around Aston Down Airfield in Gloucestershire. This little stretch of green, green grass is part owned by the Phillips’. That is Zara, Peter and their parents Anne and Mark; you know, Princess Anne. So we ran our Spartan Super with Zara and Mike Tindall and her brother Peter. I even got to see little Mia before they took off. I figure if my pastimes are shared with the 13^th, 16^th and 17^th in line to the throne of Great Britain, then I’m on the right track.

Hauling, climbing and crawling are all relatively easy for me now. Going faster, harder or for longer doesn’t bother me; I just switch the brain off and walk when I can’t run. I get tired, but I just keep going until I reach the end. I figured whatever they threw at me I would just grunt and puff and heave and run until I got there, that, or do the bloody burpees.

I thought that until I was faced with a pit of molten muddy urine soaked cowshit. I looked at my beautiful fingernails and my lovely new Salomon trail running shoes and my Nivea Rich skin and I asked myself who in Christendom I had offended so very much to find myself here in this, albeit Royal, quandary today.

Moreover, I asked myself, why on God’s Green Earth had I PAID MY OWN MONEY to do this?

 

Because I can.

 

 

My knew besties on this week's Hello!

 

 

*Under Armour is of course a well-known brand of American gym gear favoured by Bear

^I have a fancy pink pen that writes on glass, hence the Window List

 

#bridgetandbear

 

Or, “Jiu Jitsu; a Most Unexpected Romance”.

 

Anyone who’s read anything I’ve ever written here or at parismarisamadonna will by now have gleaned a couple of core facts about me,#bridgetbythebridge. 

You’ll know that I work really, really hard, all of the time, earning all the money that keeps me (and a couple of others) fed, watered, clothed and regularly flying south to visit the little people. You will know that work, and being excellent at it, has been the unique focus of my life since forever, that my entire sense of self-worth hinges on how well I am doing in my job, how much my boss values me and whether or not I’m getting a promotion. You’ll know that my job is my life.

You will also know that I am more than just a little bit opinionated. I’ve got something to say about pretty much everything and I don’t mind how loudly or how aggressively I say it.  You’ll know that when I’m ‘off on one’ I use big words I look up on the online thesaurus almost as often as I swear like a sailor; I fuck and shit and piss and c*nt as easily as I pontificate, iterate and capitulate. I love to use all the words, I love to emote and express, I love that when I write, you can hear and see me stubbornly stomping, proudly punching the air or bellowing with belly laughs.

You’ll know that I’ve hated the way I look for as long as I’ve been conscious of my own appearance. You’ll know that I go red in the face when I do sport. You’ll know that I drink too much wine and sometimes forget how I got home. You’ll know about my anxiety and you’ll know about the dead father, the loving mother, the Smartarse brother, the artistic sister and the imaginary mister. You’ll know that I love my family more than makes sense for a woman of my age and that I love to travel, to discover the people of the world and eat all the food in the fanciest of restaurants.

You’ll know that I love bonnet dramas and Bronte and Austen; I love Downton and Dancing. I am the typical middle-aged workingwoman with no cats but all the gay friends, cheering me on, toasting and roasting and boasting. You’ll know that I am more than a little obsessed with Tom Hiddleston,#poshtotty and you’ll know that I am unfailingly optimistic, even a little naïve. But you’ll most especially know, you’ll be certain of it, you know that I am a hopeless romantic.

Which is why this story is so unexpected.

I thought I’d find my romance in the theatre, or in a dimly lit wine bar, or at work. I thought that like Lizzie or Bridget, my romance would be a battle of wits, eyes meeting over a robust bottle of Pinot, hands finding each other under the table, a romantic comedy starring Colin Firth, someone who liked me very much, just as I am. ^

 

 

Well someone did tell me they liked me very much, just as I am (specifically that I am at my best when I'm not fake or covered, just myself). Someone’s eyes did meet mine, but over the cold steel rods of a dumbbell. The battle of wits took place three times a week, very early in the morning, in a flood lit gym studio, with mirrors on the walls that I never look into. It is about as romantic as a visit to the gynaecologist. While many of you slept soundly in your beds, we were exchanging increasingly suggestive innuendo as I gritted my teeth in agony, sweating, panting, and complaining that I couldn’t do it. But I always did do it; he was always standing beside me, lifting me off the floor when I collapsed, reminding me of my own strength, a supportive hand on my shoulder, a high-five for each milestone I surpassed, or my favourite, a cheeky spank when I don't lift my hips high enough off the ground during push ups.

I have seduced a man who has never seen me with makeup on. I’ve seduced a man who has never seen me with non-swooshed daytime clothes on. I’ve seduced a man who has seen my face so red he wondered if my eyeballs would bleed. I’ve seduced a man who has seen me cry at my own weakness, who has seen me wretch in exhaustion, who has seen me quake and quiver, strain and stretch, sweat and stink, grunt and groan, wobble and wail.*

Who would ever have thought that I, the bolshie, intellectual, fancy, wine-bar type would find my romantic comedy in a fluorescent fucking gym. Who would ever have expected that a man who shouts at me, a man who forces me to do things I do not want to do, would be the object of my affection? Who would have predicted that the only man to whom I have ever listened, a man who gives me orders, who would have predicted that that man would be the one that makes my knees weak? Who would have believed that a man who observes me as I do actual physical exercise would ever find me attractive?

He lets me hit him with my bare fists. He lets me throw my entire weight against him and push him off balance. And a few weeks back he taught me Jiu Jitsu; the ancient Japanese art of grappling ones opponent, rolling around on the ground until one person pins the other one to the floor. I have bruises all over my arms, but most pleasingly, I have bruises on my lips. He lets me overpower him, he lets me throw him down and then one day, after I’d panted through an hour fighting him, he let me kiss him. #notsurethatispartofjiujitsu

He is the leading man of my very own romantic (martial arts themed) comedy. #bridgetandbear

 

[He read this before I published it, and has approved, although he wishes he wasn't named after Bear Grylls, which is ironic, because he is leading a mountain climbing expedition in Scotland as we speak. Today is his Birthday, and this was my gift to him.]

 

^That’s a quote from Bridget Jones for the uninitiated

*Seduced; a word I’ve used for poetic purpose rather than an exact description of any intentional intoxication

 

 

Also, but unrelated, please click here and LIKE the Art-sist-ologer, black one with white flowers, so she can win the universe of textile design and I can retire. 

 

 

#bloodsweatandtears

 

 

I’ve joined a gym three times in my life. Three very different gyms, in three different cities, for three completely different reasons. 

The first time was in Sydney, many, many moons ago, when I joined a gym in the basement of the Sydney Hilton. I would wake up every morning at 5.30am, bus into town, work out, sweat and then swim. I did that for about a year, the year before I left Australia for a new life in Europe. The reason I joined, upon reflection, is somewhat hysterical. I had stopped taking the pill, I had quit smoking, and I was getting my female form fit and ready to welcome a little person. I joined a gym so I could have a baby.

So there is no baby, that boyfriend and I parted ways when I left Sydney, but I really did love that gym. It was so prohibitively expensive; the place was empty most mornings. The finely honed baby carrying form that boarded a 747 to London would be soft with cheese and wine after barely 6 months in Paris.

Don’t join a gym for someone else.

Skinless Drumstick

 

 

 

The second time I joined, I was in Paris. I found a gym with a pool, two Metros and 40 minutes from my front door. I would wake up at 6, train it across Paris, sweat and swim, before training it all the way back to the office. I had again, quit smoking, I was on a mission to turn my body into the most delectable of treats. I was angry, I was sad, I was a weeping emotional mess most days, and the gym was my revenge strategy against the man that broke me.

After many hours watching French women wash, rather than having a baby, I spent my mornings observing where French babies came from. Life took over, I was travelling more often than not, and the increasing cost and my decreasing motivation saw a quick end to that year of fitness. A year with more time spent in early morning public transport than actually exercising anything at all.

I should also mention that Giovanni, the ‘trainer’, was a self-obsessed bicep-kissing wanker. Giovanni, like any good Personal Trainer, inspired me. Unfortunately, he did not inspire me to get fit, but he did inspire violent fantasies of me messing the lines on his fake tan.

Do not join a gym that is farther away from your house than the pub.

 

 

On this most recent occasion, I joined the gym on a whim. Whims work well for me. Putting too much thought into planning and preparation is wasted. I’m now in London, I’m smoking (again) and I work harder than ever. One evening, while staring into the sky, I contemplated. I was probably drunk; I tend to contemplate to fill the time between holding the glass and raising it to my lips. Anyway, after a few months of family touristing, after too long spent lying in on Saturdays nursing another hangover, after a stint in Ballroom Dancing Lessons with another wanker-teacher-self-obsessed-Narcissus, I examined the softening mess that carried my bones and my brains. If I was going to carry anything heavier than a wine bottle and a bag of crisps, it was time for a change. 

There is no baby, not even a remote chance of one. I have no designs to give up the fags, not the nicotine ones anyway. My goal is not to shrink or give up the drink. My goal is singular, I want to be happy. 

Join a gym because you want to.

Stings like a bee

 

 

 

So now I’m two months in. I’m writing this on a Sunday morning after running to Westminster and back, the longest I’ve ever gone without stopping. 4 of my 8 knuckles are grazed and my right kneecap is currently sans skin. In the past week I’ve made one trip to hospital for a sports related injury, one trip to NikeTown for new tights and seven trips to the gym. #yeseveryday #yesivebecomeTHATperson

It’s really all about Bear (as in Grylls). 

Bear is a man a handful of years beyond my own. He is an ex-Army, martial arts guru and expert on all things muscular, digestive and vascular. Our relationship is very much a give and take. He takes my money. I give him the full force of two fists in his chest. After decades of being beaten down by very nasty men, I figure it is high time for me to get my own back.

Boxing has, for me, been a fucking revelation.

Despite my foul mouth, I’ve never considered myself to be especially violent. I’m a bit scared of everything really; heights, spiders, most people who aren’t my mother, meeting new people at large gatherings, failure, being naked, falling over, the list could tattoo both of my thighs…in fine print. So it was a genuine revelation the first time Bear let me wear his gloves and punch at him. #40yrsoffrustration

Bear is 6 foot of solid muscle with kind eyes and a gentle tone. He stands behind me while I lift, push and pull, while I grunt, while I cry (twice so far) and groan.  The first time we met, he asked me what I liked and what I didn’t like. He knows I hate that my face goes red, so we train before the gym has opened to the public. He knows I hate looking at myself in the mirror, but he still makes me do it, as it should prevent me falling over. #notlikely

After 2 months, I can now jab, cross, uppercut and hook. I’m on my way to becoming a lean mean fighting machine and I can feel the tiny little punch muscles poking through my bingo wings. I couldn’t really care less about how this is affecting me physically, although I do enjoy feeling stronger. Mostly, I feel happy.

Happy that there is a man on earth who can boss me about for good reason. Happy that I have found something in my life that is just for me. Happy that I can stand up straight. Happy that I punch like a girl. Happy that I run like a girl. Happy that with each flying fist, a little piece of the sadness, the anger or the fear leaves me and lands on the bag.

 

Happy.