Hell is a spinning class!

You know people are intrinsically racist when they say 'I'm not racist but..', and today I caught myself saying 'I don't hate exercise but..'.

Some people would think it is easy getting ready for a season, and so far for me it has been very pleasant.

It has mainly involved shopping. I have bought shoes from Ugg and Doc Martin, neon green sallies and bolly goggles from the ski show, pink sallies from a little shop in Skipton. I have stocked up on essentials in H and M and bought new underwear from Victoria's Secrets. New make up has been purchased from Bobbi Brown at Liberty and a new laptop is on order (as mine is just about being held together at the moment with ski tape and elastic bands).

I also had to say goodbye to my favourite foods in London, I went for Greek, Chinese and Haagen Diaz ice-cream.

Doesn't that all sound lovely (if a tad expensive)???

But in focusing on such lovely things, as my mother spent some time reminding me, I have missed a major part of getting ready for a life in the mountains.

Making some kind of effort towards getting fit.

It was a little shock to the system (that's a lie it was a huge shock to the system) last year that wherever you want to go, at some point to you have to do some serious uphill hiking. I have always done a lot of walking but before I moved to Meribel rarely had to walk up mountains. It was an uphill walk to work and an uphill walk at the end of a night out when the rep constantly forced us to walk home, no matter how much we begged to get a taxi. And although it got much easier I was always lacking behind the rep and the childcare manager as they hot footed it up at the speed of light.

There is also the skiing/ fitness issue. Seasonaires get injured at the beginning of the season when they are unfit and the end of the season when they think they are invincible mega, Olympic standard skiers.  Which they are not, they just know the mountain area and are drunk.

So, today I went to a spinning class. For those who don't know what spinning is, its an exercise class on a bike. It is always involves a scary, shouty man at the front screaming 'faster, faster' and loud music with a fast beat which is almost impossible to keep up with. Several years ago I went twice a week, but haven't done it in a very long time (because I'm lazy and am convinced that there must be a much more fun form of exercise I haven't discovered yet) Within three minutes I was sweating, within five minutes I was convinced I had died and gone to hell and within seven I was certain the 45 minute class must almost be over.

But after about fifteen I knew it was doing me some good and I should just stop moaning (moaning in my head as I wouldn't have dared moan to either the man leading the class or my mother) and just get on with getting fit.

And I have booked another class tomorrow and one on Thursday.

Thank God I have lots more shopping to look forward to.