We are go

New year, new impetus. Today I moved an inch or two closer to the finish line in two key ways: by going to the gym again (about which more in a moment), and by announcing to the world - or some of the people in my small corner of it - that I'm looking to part them from some of their cash.

Within minutes, a young and glamorous local playboy called Nigel Bailey leapt at the chance to be the first sponsor on my Virgin Money Giving page. Within a few more a devilishly handsome international rock star called Martin Ayrton from somewhere up north where it's grim showed uncommon levels of generosity by pledging a spanking £20! To these two I say thank you very much indeed. I will now leave you in peace until at least May, by which time I'll probably be desperate enough to beg donors for a second shot at their wallets. To the rest of the world I say come on! Let's do this thing!

And so to the gym, where once again today I toiled and sweated and grunted and grimaced like the world-class athlete I am. It might be getting just a tiny bit easier but it's hard to tell because it still feels so unspeakably difficult! It's made me realise how much I've depended on cycling for my fitness for the past few years. Apart from a bit of a swimming fad that came and then went when I realised it was just as likely to aggravate my back as it was to strengthen it, cycling's been pretty much all I've done to keep myself in shape.

It's kind of worked because I'm not particularly lardy and I can cycle a reasonable distance, but I have middle-aged sedentary worker's arms! My shoulders are considerably further forward than they're supposed to be! My wrists are thin, my bum is flat, my chest is saggy and my spare tyre belongs on a Land Rover not a racing bike! But apart from that I'm in great shape.

I bumped into a nice bloke called Matt today. He was on one of the South Downs Way rides I've done (over three days, I hasten to add) and we got on pretty well on the ride until he got a bit bored and left us for dead. But he's young and he's a personal trainer for crying out loud, so I didn't feel too bad. But today as I strained over my feeble rotator cuff swivels he was standing just feet away with dumbbells the size of Quality Street tins (the massive ones you get at Christmas) swinging them around like they were indeed empty Quality Street tins. There's nothing arrogant or macho about him but I confess I felt rather inadequate as he performed his excruciatingly slow perfect press ups that ended with a twist and one arm swinging around to point to the sky (I mean how is that even possible?!)

But, as Matt said when I grunted some self-effacing nonsense about having a long way to go, I just need to keep at it. Little and often. One step at a time. Rome wasn't built in a day. And all that type of stuff.