Here Myni and Sam share and explain their wildly differing views on exercise. For those in Myni’s ‘camp’, the advice on the block is… find a form of exercise you enjoy – then there’s a chance you might stick to it. For those in Sam’s ‘camp’ – beware self-harm. And for all the rest carry on carrying on.

Myni gets in first

I hate exercise – and I’ve always hated exercise. And I’ve never really understood why people would want to leave the soft warm comfort of their sofa within the reassuring safety of four walls for the often frenzied, frankly masochistic worlds of ski slopes, tennis courts, gyms and the rest. Walking – well I never could see the point of that – aimless I’ve always thought; in fact, the only time I agreed to walk was as a child when my parents borrowed a dog (a gorgeous grey, black and white splodged cocker spaniel called Lindy) – then I agreed to walk – with enthusiasm. Competition – I’m definitely against that. I mean why would you put yourself through this sort of thing; I mean who cares…

I always think of my father’s story, which he delighted in telling whenever he got the opportunity, of when he was in the army and on some sort of training exercise. His commanding officer ordered him to jump off a particularly high wall. My father refused repeatedly saying if he did jump he’d break his ankle. The order was repeated but this time with no get out clause except escalating punishment. So he did jump…and he did break his ankle. Well, I rest my case – and as you can see sport was simply an opportunity for humour.

BUT…humour, bravado and defences aside when I start to unpick this aspect of myself – apart from the anti-sporting gene that I inherited, I just always felt unsafe and at a disadvantage away from home. If you’ve read my story (Myni’s story) you’ll see that in spite of beautiful golden film-star-type parents, from a very early age – and certainly by school age, I had acquired a physique that was built for comfort not speed; I was fat. So, I daresay, I kept away from situations (sports days onwards) where I feared, correctly, that I was set up to fail and learnt to get in first and make others laugh about my self-deprecating figure of fun observations. If I’m honest it was probably a defence, but it didn’t soothe the fat girl stigma of feeling different and left out. But it did get me through these judgemental times.

Interestingly, although I brought up my daughter in anti-sport mode, she gently observed this and with the acquisition of her own four sons was determined that they would be team players, love competitive sport and enjoy the great outdoors in every way – which they all do. And she, while understanding my position and laughing with me, has quietly thrown herself into the outdoor world especially, but also exercise and she loves walking.

Now, half a century or so later – I suppose you could say my love of cakes and all things carbohydrate together with the loathing of most kinds of movement has come back to bite me in the shape of diabetes. I have tried a number of requiring-movement activities including Bob’s gym, different types of dance, yoga, Qigong for all sorts of reasons (probably the line of least resistance, if I’m honest) – and I still find walking aimless and the gym masochistic. But now in recent years I have discovered gardening and although I seem to employ every avoidance tactic known to man not to go out, I do force myself out pretty much daily. And once outside, unsurprisingly to everyone except me, I love it and mentally, physically and especially creatively it absorbs me and does it for me. And, though I hate to admit it, it definitely helps keep those blood sugars (together with all the other lifestyle moves I have made) stay where they should be.

Sam tries to keep up

I was a gangly child and never good at sports. Consequently, I always got that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach when the PE teacher shouted “right, Smith, Jones, pick two teams”.  Smith and Jones duly stood out in front, puckered up with importance as the group closed together waiting to be picked.  “Foster”, “Lee”, “Johnson”, “Davies” ………..… on and on it went on with Smith and Jones taking turns to pick first their friends, then the good players, the bullies, and lastly the hopeless but keen.  Eventually 20 were picked and each team ran off with their captain laughing and cheering and discarding in an instant the embarrassed remainder………..… us. A mix of the fat, shy, awkward and general misfits.

After our agonisingly long 5 minutes of quietly endured public humiliation the teacher would stare at us with zero interest and shout, “right you lot, cross country running around the fields, off you go”. To be fair he really didn’t care what we did so long as we kept away from his game. This weekly ritual had a profound effect on me and I’m saddened when I hear of schools still using this method as a lazy way to form two relatively balanced teams. I suspect PE teachers aren’t the sort to experience such crushing feelings of rejection and uselessness and wouldn’t even consider it.  I, on the other hand, have tried to avoid team sports ever since.

Except that is when, in the Navy, the Field Gun Crew visited to carry out their eliminations. This was an annual recruitment drive to select physically fit and strong men to take part in the Field Gun challenge (basically dismantling a one-ton gun, moving it across obstacles and reassembling it (if you’re interested, check out Royal Navy Field Gun on google). Well I had no interest in Field Gun and I wasn’t fit or strong. However, my boss told me I was the right size for a particular role and to get my a*** down the gym. Long story short after a lot of circuit training, pain, weight lifting, pain, running, pain and then more pain, I ‘ran the crew’.

This was a full-time commitment with many injuries (and more pain) but it carried a lot of kudos in the Navy. With regard to the team games thing, each crew member had a specific role to carry out and this was drilled to perfection. Therefore, unlike football or cricket, if I learnt my role, I could do well. I then took up karate, marathon running, weight lifting etc., etc and although still avoiding team sports, I was extremely fit and muscular. This hardcore macho training continued for nearly 40 years but what I didn’t realise, is that I wasn’t healthy. I still smoked, drank a lot and ate rubbish. What looked great on the outside, was not healthy on the inside.

Fast forward to when one of my sons (a Royal Marine) and I planned to backpack through the Lake District over the tops. This was going to be some quality time after he’d been away on tour. So, there’s me aged 60 jogging 15 miles with a full rucksack in order to get extra fit before he came home. Inevitably (I now realise) I had a massive heart failure, loads of tests and was told it would get worse. Obviously, I totally ignored the consultant and continued my training – at least I tried to – for another 2 years until, eventually, – in my wife’s words – I finally grew up.

I was able to accept that I was no longer 20 and after a difficult internal struggle, I let go of my ego (not actually a bad thing I now realise). I took up Tai Chi, mindfulness, Nei Gong, cycling, Functional Movement, food with less but more healthy calories, walking with a day pack, Qi Gong, yoga and meditation. These pursuits are not only enjoyable and good for my mind, body and spirit, but importantly they help me to become unified and whole. Honestly, I’ve never felt healthier, fitter and more balanced as a person. Of course, I desperately want to share all this with the macho guys pumping iron in the gym but, I know they need to find their own way to the top of the mountain.