holiday house

Each and every time I think about going to the gym, I decide tomorrow’s the day ..including when tomorrow comes ..if I even remember.

This morning, I decided *today* was the day. Even when circumstances conspired against me with a clash of transport needs, I doubled my efforts and grabbed my scarcely used bike, absolutely determined to seize the day.

I glanced at the map and reasoned that if I took some shortcuts I could be there in a half hour for the class I was aiming for.

It turns out there’s a great deal unknown to me about my own locale beyond the arterial roads I’ve previously travelled, on four wheels and two but always motorised. I cruised into a tantrum’s-worth of dead ends, usually when trying to avoid a hill climb that I ended up having to swallow bitter pill style anyhow. With 21 gears at my disposal, it was humiliating to need to get off and walk on three occasions because there wasn’t strength left in my legs to push the pedals. I cursed the golfers of the world every time I was forced to take the long way around a fenced off green.

Finally I emerged adjacent large buildings with roofs. Ah, at last, the gym.

But it wasn’t. No.

It was the National Dinosaur Museum. I may have no sense of direction, but I know enough of the local geography for a miserable revelation that to get back on track and hit the elusive gym I was facing the biggest hill climb of the day.

I also know enough of the locale to know a quick wheel across the road would find me at the George Harcourt Inn.

Who could resist?

So here I am. Old Speckled Hen in responsible proportions. Marvin Gaye on the sound system. Stunning spring day.

I phoned Ed to see if he’s done with the car. He is. I’ve invited him for a beer. It would be rude not to accept the lift back home he’ll undoubtedly offer.

Maybe I always knew where I was going.