I know who I am. At 43 if you haven’t figured it out, you need to take a crash course in you! But I need no such thing. I am a pudding. I am meant to be savoured after a long Sunday lunch with a dessert wine from the Margaret River region or maybe a Moscato d’Asti with a bit of frizzante from the Piedmont region. So what in all the gods, in all the religions names, am I doing in a Spin Class at 8:30am on a Saturday morning? Trying to climb uphill, while “you twist it up another notch” to the upbeat mania of Duran Duran’s “Hungry Life the Wolf? A pudding is supposed to be setting in its bowl at that time of the morning. But no, there she is with all the muscular main courses who are flexing their muscles and burning faster than a Sunday roast!

I made a commitment, to my friend that I would cycle in a 100 kilometer race in March 2011. So now, the pudding needs to place herself at the very least on a stationary bicycle. I knew at the time that I cycled like Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music, when she takes the repressed von Trapp children out on a hypermanic, laughing excursion. This, I too can do. Make me stand up and sing “High on the hill was a lonely goatherd” with an exaggerated English accent and a schoolmarm face and I will do it with aplomb. Some might laugh at me, some might laugh with me but in the end, I would achieve it! Make me cycle 100 kms in Lycra, what was I thinking? Why do seemingly sensible people think there is anything fun about grinding your coccyx with a pestle and mortar of a bicycle seat? If I was Jewish, I would just shake my head and sigh “Oi vey”.

Someone help me, how do I morph from pudding chick to cycling Barbie with the least possible pain? I have solved far greater problems, but this one has me stumped…

Share on Facebook

Tanya No Dieting