Up in the lower Blue Mountains, air still and cool, birds cheeping in the background.
My first bushwalk was looking set to be a nice adventure. It was the first time I had met some of the women from Barry's bootcamp. They all looked so fit but better still they were so nice.They made me feel so welcome, like I had been part of it all from the start.But within me I felt so insecure and totally unsure of how I would stack up. I knew I wouldnt be able to keep up - a total contrast to when I was younger.
I remember starting the walk thinking "How beautiful this is?", and how I felt totally in control of my pace. But believe me it didnt last long. I was situated towards the back of the group if not at the end. So all I could see was the backs of everyone else and hear their conversations.I remember hearing laughs and giggles and my heavy breathing. As the walk continued my breathing got heavier and louder, and their discussions became softer. Not because they were not talking but because they were moving ahead in leaps and bounds. About every kilometre Barry would stop and let us all regroup and he would make sure I was okay. I answered "Yes" after a couple of puffs of my inhaler and the walk would continue.
On I plodded and within a short distance I remember losing sight of all (gees they were super fit), but one lady Sharon stayed one step of me and kept on asking me if I was okay and that she would keep me company. The regrouping continued for another couple of kilometres until at one point I remember saying to Sharon "I feel like I am going to twist an ankle", and literally within about 5-10 minutes of saying that, that is exactly what I did.In my head it all felt like it happened in slow motion, like watching a sequence out of the Matrix. If someone was watching I am sure it would have looked funny, but when I hit the ground I heard a snap - and then PAIN.
Everyone came running to my aide. I am not sure what was more bruised, my ankle or my ego. I am sure it was the latter. Barry and all of the ladies wanted to end the walk and help me out but I wouldnt have been able to live with myself if they all missed out on their walk. I got up and said I was ok (after some hollering and wailling like a big girl), and felt good that they all continued their activity. Sharon insisted on helping me out and she kept me company on the way back to the cars.
On our way back we left our fellow bootcampers a message on the driveway with our water bottles and also some broken twigs. We thought we were very clever.
When all the ladies returned from their walk I was totally astounded at how they were not even out of breath. My ankle had swollen some but I was more embarrassed than anything. I remember waiting for them all to leave and just bursting into tears in front of Barry. He assured me that all would be okay and that I would recover and live to see another bushwalk. And I have. But back then I thought that nothing good would ever come out of me exercising. I had somehow assumed a "sick role" and the mentality attached to it would be harder to break than the physical limitations.
My first bushwalk was looking set to be a nice adventure. It was the first time I had met some of the women from Barry's bootcamp. They all looked so fit but better still they were so nice.They made me feel so welcome, like I had been part of it all from the start.But within me I felt so insecure and totally unsure of how I would stack up. I knew I wouldnt be able to keep up - a total contrast to when I was younger.
I remember starting the walk thinking "How beautiful this is?", and how I felt totally in control of my pace. But believe me it didnt last long. I was situated towards the back of the group if not at the end. So all I could see was the backs of everyone else and hear their conversations.I remember hearing laughs and giggles and my heavy breathing. As the walk continued my breathing got heavier and louder, and their discussions became softer. Not because they were not talking but because they were moving ahead in leaps and bounds. About every kilometre Barry would stop and let us all regroup and he would make sure I was okay. I answered "Yes" after a couple of puffs of my inhaler and the walk would continue.
On I plodded and within a short distance I remember losing sight of all (gees they were super fit), but one lady Sharon stayed one step of me and kept on asking me if I was okay and that she would keep me company. The regrouping continued for another couple of kilometres until at one point I remember saying to Sharon "I feel like I am going to twist an ankle", and literally within about 5-10 minutes of saying that, that is exactly what I did.In my head it all felt like it happened in slow motion, like watching a sequence out of the Matrix. If someone was watching I am sure it would have looked funny, but when I hit the ground I heard a snap - and then PAIN.
Everyone came running to my aide. I am not sure what was more bruised, my ankle or my ego. I am sure it was the latter. Barry and all of the ladies wanted to end the walk and help me out but I wouldnt have been able to live with myself if they all missed out on their walk. I got up and said I was ok (after some hollering and wailling like a big girl), and felt good that they all continued their activity. Sharon insisted on helping me out and she kept me company on the way back to the cars.
On our way back we left our fellow bootcampers a message on the driveway with our water bottles and also some broken twigs. We thought we were very clever.
When all the ladies returned from their walk I was totally astounded at how they were not even out of breath. My ankle had swollen some but I was more embarrassed than anything. I remember waiting for them all to leave and just bursting into tears in front of Barry. He assured me that all would be okay and that I would recover and live to see another bushwalk. And I have. But back then I thought that nothing good would ever come out of me exercising. I had somehow assumed a "sick role" and the mentality attached to it would be harder to break than the physical limitations.
