I am in the nation’s most-hated new demographic: those who decided, the day after gyms closed, to take up jogging. I live alone and work from home in a London flat; I’d had mild coronavirus symptoms, so had already been on selfimposed lockdown for 10 days.
Something needed to be done to preserve my sanity, and it was outdoor exercise. I’m not what you’d call a natural athlete. I wasn’t one of the kids who emerged rosy-cheeked and triumphant from PE lessons; I was the one at the back, making quiet sarcastic remarks.
And yet, in my 30s, I’ve discovered that fitness is not a closed club after all. I attempted yoga, then swimming, barre, Pilates and Zumba – and found that I liked them all.
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