In self isolation due to the Coronavirus, my mind drifts back to cruising, and the inability to exercise properly at home. A tongue in cheek insight to exercising on board.

In self isolation due to the Coronavirus, my mind drifts back to cruising, and the inability to exercise properly at home. A tongue in cheek insight to exercising on board.  

I am positive vacationing on a cruise is a little like running a marathon. In both you have to break through the pain barrier.

Perhaps the cruise is somewhat different when it comes to the suffering of pain. It is the excruciating realisation that what you see in the mirror is in fact your image, albeit a very bloated, overweight new you, one that has had the benefit of buckets of food, albeit delicious intoxicating morsels spread over the 24 hours of each day.
They say that most people put on at least two pounds each and every day whilst on board, and by God you notice the bulges swinging round your midriff within a very short time.

In a feeble attempt to control the inevitable outcome, some try to reduce the effect by exercising. Either in the capacious well-equipped gym, with their modern gleaming equipment and automated odour puffers, which eliminates the whiff of burning fat or on the jogging track around the decks. Not necessarily jogging, many these days opt for power walking, a more sedate gentlemanly style of jogging. Walking tends not to shake every organ and bone in your body to destruction, including those delicate parts that are secreted externally.
In fact, all this exercise does is ease your conscience, which ultimately allows you to eat more devilishly gorgeous creations. 
This latter method of exercise is the one that suits me best. Each morning at 7am I religiously creep into the bathroom, try not to disturb Judith who is content to live on her back, mouth open, snoring away in total oblivion to my attempts at calorie control.

Then it’s up through the corridors, which have already started to come alive with overweight people, who are desperate to recharge their flagging their sugar levels. After all most have not had food pass their lips for at least five hours. Some take this religious act of gluttony a little far, overloading in spectacular and potentially deadly manner. The mobile defibrillators are kept busy dashing from one prostate victim to another.
Lights dim momentarily has the power surges are pumped into the chest of the latest victim, as she or he lies motionless between the omelette counter and the waffle station. Crowds soon disburse once the path to the food has been cleared. The now revived guest is unceremoniously ushered away to the infirmary with the aid of two strong Jamaican waiters, a Greek doctor and a Romanian nurse in a specially designed reinforced extra wide wheelchair. But we will gloss over that.

At this time of day the decks are awash with water, not from heavy seas but from crewmembers who are busy scrubbing away any signs of the previous night‘s revelry, spilt beer, coffee and the odd trodden in canapé. 
Over the handrails the views of white horses can be seen crashing into the turquoise sea whilst on the skyline you can just make out the mystical outlines of our next port of call. It matters not, the fitness regime takes precedence at this hour. This is the time for making your limbs suffer, lungs have to burn and the heart has to pump. And that is just so that you can get to the orange juice dispenser.


The objective is to burn calories in an effort to compensate for the consumption of the previous day and prepare oneself for today’s onslaught.
For me the allotted time is 45 minutes of brisk walking, weaving through the sedate strollers, and bidding them good morning in the process. It’s all very civilised. Wives accompany their husbands as they steer their motorised buggies oxygen tank in lap, or is it the other way round. 
After a few days you get to know the regulars, the slightly fitter individuals who walk more than one lap of the deck, and the stalwarts who also have a conscience.

Between the small group of individuals, which makes up perhaps only 1% of the total complement of guests on the ship there is a competitive edge, especially if you try to overtake one another. This can only be done on the straights as the bends narrow, making it impossible to pass without one or both of you being forced into the ships superstructure or railings. Timing is imperative, as is stealth. If the front runners hear you coming up from behind they have the opportunity to block your path. Waving arms from side to side in the pretence of exercising more than legs. Venture to close and your jaw will be cracked from the flying arm. Or a black eye ensues.

Individuals go through this ritual each and every day, some even proceed from the decks into the gym for more torture. I did this once, but after 15 minutes on the cycles and 15 minutes on the step machine my legs turned to jelly and my mind resolved not to be so stupid in the future. After all it’s the conscience we were trying to clear not become a Mr Adonis role model.

Struggles of the mind do not stop there. Once you have finished the workout, showered and dressed ready for a new day there is a new challenge. Prior to joining the feeding frenzy on the decks below a new struggle presents itself. Where are you going to have breakfast that morning and what are you going to eat?