Magnificent mother

I think will power is the strongest energy source accessible to humans. It’s unlimited (as long as you fuel it properly), and at times the sole engine in driving you towards your goals. The past week in Bangkok, my will power was in a completely different place than at the gym; I was busy running around the Grand Palace, or Siam Paragon shopping centre, eating street food, and striking bargains at the market. I worked out for a grand total of two (three, optimistically, if you count the 20-minute failure I mentioned in my last post) sessions, and had absolutely no desire to let my will power win over my wonderfully lazy holiday mode. 

My mother is 57 years old. She was the main reason I went to Bangkok, and she is also my top role model in the world. Wanna know why? My nearly three times as old as me mother went to the gym every single day we were on holiday. I was astounded to receive text messages from her at seven in the morning, letting me know she’d already hit the weights and was ready for breakfast with me and Ariz. The health kick is a routine my mum only started a few months back, and I just could not fathom how she managed to get up, work out, and still be the happiest chappy of our travel company. While I divulged in pasta carbonara, chocolate, pizza, pork noodles, and tiramisu, my mother didn’t budge an inch, her most unhealthy dessert being fresh mango with a scoop of ice cream. By doing this, my mum showed me that no matter how old you are, your will power is your strongest weapon of choice. 

The most important thing, then, when deciding to change your life style - cause that is essentially what you’re doing when you start working out on the regular and completely altering your diet - isn’t any cooking book or training program or new trainers. The only way you will actually succeed in your challenge and eventually reach your goal, is by constant, immovable will. 

Lazy travel

Bangkok really is an amazing hub. We arrived on Saturday afternoon, and I finally understand what Ariz means when he tells me this is a dirty, disgusting, beautiful city. There is nothing but smiling, hospitable people here, skyscrapers shooting up from filthy, colourful houses and shacks, like the pioneers in the Amazon rainforest, with the resort we’re staying at right on the river having wonderful views, wonderful rooms, and delicious, delicious... food. Uh-oh, here we go. So far, we’ve had Thai, Italian, and Hawaiian meals, and the hotel does not disappoint; they’re so filling, so tasty and yummy and oh my, I must have some of this and that and this, that it’s impossible to say no. 

“Oh, the Italian chef does a traditional pasta carbonara? I’ll have that one, thank you very much. And a bottle of Prosecco, please.” 

I’m in total holiday mode, and there’s nothing harder, nothing more inexplicably difficult, than working out when you’re on holiday. Sure, you can tell yourself that the walking and the seeing and the eating are all activities on par with a good session at the gym. But you’d be lying. They’re not. So on Sunday morning, on a very optimistic - almost naïve, I’d say - spur of the moment, Ariz and I decided to go to the gym. And we did. For twenty whole minutes I managed ten minutes on the treadmill and two sets of my different kinds of sit-ups, before we figured that it was time for the Chatuchak market. Guess what they have at the market? Food! Amazing, glorious street food; marinated pork straight off the grill and fried bananas so sweet you could swear you must’ve died and gone to heaven. Then when you come back to the hotel, you’re tired, of course, from the seeing, and walking, and eating, and you have to rest. 

Now, I’m not by any means implying that you should simply stay at the hotel when you’re on holiday. That would be the pinnacle of stupidity. I do, however, think that it’s on journeys just like this one you very easily can end up going completely back to scratch on lots and lots of hard work at the gym. I’m still going to enjoy my raspberry sorbet dessert, and the odd chocolate croissant at the beautiful hotel buffet, of course. But today we went to the gym again, and somehow, it gets me more energised, more excited, and more balanced than I am when I don’t go. So I suppose it’s a symbiotic thing; you do some sit-ups in the morning, and then you have some ice cream while walking through centuries-old, marvellous architecture in the afternoon. It’s just like Bangkok: win-win. 

Gym landscapes

There is something utterly serene about listening to a book while walking on a treadmill. As your muscles work, you’re taken on a journey far away from the gym, making the workout seem merely a minor participant in the larger scope of the play. At the moment, my ears read The Garden of Evening Mists by Tan Twan Eng to me. The book was short listed for this year’s Man Booker Prize (though it to my great despair did not win), and is so well written I’m forced to close my eyes not to miss a single sentence or word of the piece. Today, this allowed me to, quite simply, feel my workout, rather than observe it. Normally, I’m constantly checking my Polar HRM, following my body’s heart rate and calorie burn, always analytical, always observational. 

At the gym this afternoon however, my eyes remained closed for thirty minutes straight and my legs (crisper, it seemed, than normal) communicated to me in an entirely different way than they usually do. My 50-minute walk on the treadmill reminded me in some ways of going on an unexplored Disneyland ride, completely unaware of what wonders are about to ensue. My most vivid memory of such an experience is the first ever time I boarded the Indiana Jones ride in Florida, in which the wagon dodged both giant boulders and venomous snakes. None of the mechanics mattered; I was completely immersed in this make-believe story. When the ride was over, my mother and I immediately used another fast pass to enter the magical world again. 

While walking up and down as the treadmill changed its incline, at a steady 5,7 kilometres per hour pace, I felt like I was walking through the very garden Yun Ling, the female protagonist of Evening Mists, helps Japanese gardener Aritomo renovate and build. I could see the Malaysian mountains, trees, rocks, and plants vividly, as my legs rejoiced in the journey I took them on. The whole trip flew by, just like that Indiana Jones ride in Florida, and soon enough I had listened to a whole chapter of the book. My mind returned to the gym, while my legs continued walking, wishing themselves back to the magnificent Yugiri landscape of Eng’s wonderfully written novel. I’m sure they’ll be absolutely thrilled when we arrive Bangkok, Thailand in a week’s time, in all probability running me around the city like a child does a theme park.

Grumpy stomach

This has been an interesting week. Once again I’ve suffered from migraines, entirely related to stress, and a little bug that’s found a small home in my body. I haven’t invited either of them to stay, and I’m being extremely nice to the two, as I don’t want them to prolong their designated visitation hours. As a result of these unexpected guests, however, I only went to the gym four times this week, and guess what? It doesn’t feel good at all. The funny thing is, when I work out, I’m motivated to eat healthy, because all my body aches for once a session at the gym is over, is replenishment of two things: energy and physical rest. The energy comes in its entirety from the thoroughly wholesome, and delicious, food I eat, and when I can’t go to the gym due to silly things like migraines and obnoxious bugs, I have a tendency to feel less enthusiastic about my meal plan too.

So, today, I made cardamom waffles. I know what you must be thinking; those things certainly don’t fit into any category of my super duper summer diet. Not even close. The only thing remotely healthy in there were eggs (but with the yoke, of course) and milk (but that one was full cream). The funny thing was, the waffles, once they had been made from dough to the little heart-shaped treats they are, didn’t taste nice. I set my teeth into the first one, and instantly my body - which shrieked for sugar just a couple of weeks ago - curled itself up into a mush of stagnancy, nausea, and utter discontent. It was as if my energy level quite simply quit on me, and gave up. So I had a little sleep. Then, when I woke up, my body was shrieking for something entirely different. It wanted vegetable chicken stock soup. 

Ah, the joy of peeling a potato. These apples of the earth that have accompanied me since I was a baby, and that somehow manage to fill me up with warmth and comfort, no matter how hungry, nauseous, or sick I am. Right now, they’re boiling softly with carrots, swedes, and some serious amounts of garlic (cause Ariz said, regardless of the terrible breath it gives you, it’s actually quite the immune system booster). The smell that’s filling up the house is just right; no fatty butter ooze or packed-with-flour treats. My bowl stands ready next to the pot, and my tummy seems to be smiling in delight once again. Tomorrow morning I’m having a kiwi and raspberry vanilla yoghurt smoothie for breakfast, and salmon salad for lunch. Hopefully both migraine and bug will pack their bags and I’ll be able to visit the gym once more - armed with proper energy - by Tuesday or Wednesday. Either way, it’s like I said to my German friend, Luisa: this doesn’t have anything to do with looks. Once you hit 50, it’ll be all about staying healthy, and then, your body will thank you for the years of groundwork you’ve put into its well-being, going for long walks and enjoying the occasional vegetable chicken stock soup.