I blame Rocky Balboa. It was watching the first Rocky film as a teenager which convinced me it was a good idea to try drinking raw eggs, and it was seeing the astonishingly well preserved Sylvester Stallone in Rocky Balboa that persuaded me that I should begin the year by joining a gym. The great lie perpetrated by the Rocky films is not in their suggestion that a white man can become the heavyweight champion of the world, but their training sequences of Rocky running after chickens, punching sheep carcasses and running up steps to Survivor's Eye of the Tiger.
I must have known that Stallone's physique took longer to achieve than the featured three-minute montage, but I was 15 years old and hoped that a warm glass of milk each night might produce a similar transformation. Twenty years on, and inspired by seeing the new Rocky film, I promised myself that this year I would finally get fit.
There are few things I envy about fat people, but they at least have an obvious motivation for taking exercise. It is not just about self-esteem: a study this week revealed that fatter people pay the price of being overweight by earning less. Society does not mock skinny people, and in particular skinny men, with the same ferocity it does fat people. So as a man who is in reasonable shape, and not particularly vain, it is frankly hard work mustering up any reason for taking regular exercise at all. Why bother?
The only time I ever joined the gym before was three years ago, and in the aftermath of seeing my mother suffer a stroke. I immediately enrolled at a local gym. I was a member for more than 18 months but I only attended for the first three months; because I had no specific goal it was hard to maintain my enthusiasm. The sight of the 60-year-old Stallone training in Rocky Balboa inspired me to join again, and this time it will, I hope, be different.
My preparations were perfect. I had my blood pressure and cholesterol checked; my cholesterol was fine but my blood pressure was slightly high. I noted the precise figures down and wrote down a target for six and 12 months. I toyed with making a graph.
The facilities at my new gym border on the impressive ... but they come at a price. When told the cost I nearly fainted, but then told myself this will guilt-trip me into attending.
On my induction I was shown the equipment - the flat screen televisions on exercise bikes and heart rate monitors on the treadmills. I almost expected that for an additional small fee the gym would provide someone else to complete the sessions for me.
The next day I bought a pair of trainers designed especially for running. When the instructor asked me my reason for joining I gave her some guff about wanting to get healthy. Perhaps the others sweating on the treadmill were there for vanity or self-esteem; when I was going to eventually hit the treadmill it was because I was running from the inevitability of what time does to the human body: running from death.
And that was why seeing a 60-year-old man in a boxing ring persuaded me that, at 35, it was worth joining the gym. But just as the training sequences in Rocky deceived me as a boy, so the sophisticated equipment in the gym also peddles myths: it suggests that the more expensive and plush the gym, the easier it will be to achieve the body you desire; the more luxurious the facilities, the more painless the transformation.
The brutal and unglamorous truth is that one doesn't need expensive trainers or treadmills with televisions; you can get fit by running up steps and chasing chickens, given enough hard sweat, brute effort and work.
So do I feel any better after joining the gym? Truth is, I have yet to attend my first session.
