I have always been as unfit as an unfiddle. I absolutely loathed gym class. My eye-hand coordination was lousy and my balance was worse. I dropped balls and fell off equipment. I always finished last, and once school was behind me vowed never to do anything remotely athletic ever again in this lifetime!

 

Needless to say, by the time I was in my forties I was in bad shape. Issues with menopause forced me to reassess a lifetime of unfitness. I reluctantly slunk along to the local gym and furtively checked out the instruments of torture aligned in frightening rows with super fit people sweating impressively all over them. After tentatively trying out a few of the machines I was starting to conclude that the only people who could use them were those who were already fit.

 

Then I saw him. He was in his seventies – perhaps even his eighties. He shuffled in using a zimmer frame, his lopsided walk suggesting he had suffered a stroke. He edged himself alongside one of the treadmills, painstakingly levered himself on to the platform, set it to its slowest speed, and started walking. I was moved by his courage and dedication. Perhaps there was something here for me after all.

 

I cautiously tried out the stepper and discovered that I could manage it without disgracing myself, so I huffed and puffed my way through ten whole minutes at a light setting, motivated by the elderly man in front of me. While I was cooling off after so much uncharacteristic effort I browsed the notice board. One notice caught my eye. It was an invitation to “climb Mount Everest on the stepper”. Some clever soul had worked out how many steps it would take to climb the mountain, and there were squares you could check off to indicate your progress. I proudly entered my miserable total and resolved to take up the challenge.

 

Over the next few months I checked off square after square. Much to my amazement I was doing more and more each session. I was actually getting fit! One day, checking off my progress, another notice caught my eye. It announced that entries were open for the annual Sky Tower run, climbing the stairs of the Southern Hemisphere’s tallest building. I decided to give it a go. A couple of weeks later I had officially “climbed Everest” and was now training for a real climb. I kept pinching myself, finding it hard to believe this was really me, the gym class drop out.

 

Nearly a year after I first embarked upon my fitness program I lined up with hundreds of others in front of the Sky Tower. I had no great hopes for a good time as gym times rarely equate to real times. All I wanted to do was reach the top so I could say that I had done it. The “elite runners” went first, then the rest of us were sent on our way, one small group at a time.

 

Once embarked upon the climb there was no way to go but up. Lots of people seemed to be clattering past me, but to my surprise I was also passing a few. After what seemed like an age I finally burst into the light at the top of the stairway, crossed the finish line, and was promptly sent down in the lift to make room for those on their way up. I had done it! In my fiftieth year I had finally done something to make my long suffering gym teacher proud of me!

 

There was a strange footnote to this little story. That evening I checked out the results on line. I thought I had done the climb in about 22 minutes, but couldn’t find my number anywhere. Something made me check the times in the 12 minute range – and there was mine! Panic had spurred me into action, and I had done a time only 2 minutes slower than the last of the “elite women” athletes. I was gobsmacked.

 

The moral of this story is that it is never too late to get fit. If a seventy year old man using a walking frame can do it, if a professional slug like myself can do it … so can anyone …