A recent extended trip away with work has kept be off the bike for over a month. In the last 40 odd days I’ve stayed in about 15 different hotels in various countries from Chile to Australia. Sounds idyllic? Well, somebody has to do it I suppose but it certainly doesn’t do anything for ones fitness. As one of those malleable people with a will of wet cardboard I find myself totally unable to walk past the cooked breakfast counter in any hotel. No matter how hard I try to make a beeline for the fruit and yogurt station I always seem to end up with a plate of hash browns, fried eggs and whatever masquerades as sausages and bacon in some of these places……..

I could write a thesis on hotel breakfasts of the world, waxing lyrical about the beautiful chilli infused omelette’s of Tahiti, decrying the appalling excuse for bacon found in any American hotel from the West to the East Coast, or warning of the perils of western stomachs sampling the mystery meat spring rolls and noodles of Central China. However,I fear I am digressing. What has this got to do with gym training I hear you cry O small and exclusive audience of mine?

Well mindful of the damage that hotel breakfasts, a lack of exercise and my other personal failing when away from home (excessive consumption of hop based refreshments) were going to wreak on my already fragile fitness, I actually had the foresight to pack my ‘gym’ kit in my suitcase before I left home this time.

Having a pair of shorts and some trainers with me though didn’t mean I was seeking out the hotel ‘fitness suite’ as soon as my sponge bag had randomly disgorged its contents around the bathroom sink. Oh no. Hotel gyms / fitness suites / health clubs / whatever the hell the leaflet on the desk in the room calls them are some of the strangest and downright frightening places on earth.

First you have to find them. Sometimes if it’s a nice modern hotel that’s proud of its facilities there’s often some clear bold signage in reception or the lobby area that positively beckons and encourages you to seek out its range of torture machines. In other less salubrious establishments you have to enter a dark world of rarely trodden corridors and hidden semi-secret mezzanine floors which are rarely trodden and defiantly haven’t seen a carpet sweeper for a very long time……. Finally after many false turns and misdirection’s you find yourself nervously hopping from foot to foot outside a forbidding door marked ‘GYMNASIUM’ or ‘FITNESS SUITE – PLEASE SIGN IN AT DESK’

Now if you’re lucky it’ll be a glass door which allows you a peak into the interior which will help steady the nerves and gives you a bit of a clue about exactly what sort of establishment yours about to enter. Blank wooden door? It’s a nervous push then to see what fate awaits you ……… a dusty windowless box room with some ancient and mouldy looking rowing machines and a set of mismatched dumb bells? Or a gleaming reception desk Behind which stands a strapping tanned Adonis with disconcertingly white teeth who takes in your faded trainers and slightly protruding paunch with one glance of withering contempt?

Even after passing the hurdles of the door and possibly the reception desk (and if you really unlucky a ‘health and lifestyle’ questionnaire) eventually gaining access to the gym just presents more problems to the weary and under prepared traveller.  If your really lucky it will be as empty as the Newcastle United F.C. Trophy cabinet. An empty gym devoid of watching eyes gives the nervous newbie carte blanche to wander round to their heart’s content examining the various machines and stacks of weights. It gives you time to figure out at your leisure how to start and stop the treadmill in a controlled manner that won’t throw you through the wall in front of you. You can tentatively select what you think might be an appropriate weight on the chest press machine and try an exploratory rep without anyone watching. In short you can make the inevitable arse of your self in perfect solitude with no danger of hearing the odd damming snigger or catching a look of something akin to pity from a more seasoned gym goer.

Of course should you find the gym populated with fellow incompetent & patently unfit fellow guests it’s not the end of the world. Assuming you haven’t hopelessly gone to seed in the course of your holiday or business trip the dregs of your cycling fitness will hopefully leave you not quite at the bottom of the implicit pecking order rearrangement which subtly takes place every time a new gladiator enters the arena of sweatiness. Everybody checks out each other and new arrivals as a matter of course. We all pretend we don’t but it’s a lie. The males of the species surreptitiously checkout the girth of each other’s biceps. Rowing form is scrutinised out of the corner of the eye – surely he can’t hold that form and stroke rate for long? The nonchalant glance at the recently vacated weights machine to see how much the previous occupant was lifting, (only 40kgs? Phaaaaa, I can do that all day….) I’m sure the ladies do exactly the same sort of thing but with the added complexity of checking out the gym fashion etiquette mine field……. (Those leggings with that crop top? Very brave of her darling with her figure) inevitably of course the sexes will also be checking out each other and not always in the competitive sense. This can be fraught with danger. In a room full of total strangers you don’t know if there’s any pre-existing relationships hiding under the surface. A pilot friend of mine Steve is married to a stunningly attractive lady called Claire who fly’s as a Cabin Attendant for the same airline. A few years ago during a stopover in the USA when they were both flying together he told me how they both availed themselves of the hotel gym to work off the coffee overload which is an unfortunate side effect of transatlantic flying. Steve found himself running next to a prime piece of American beefcake on the next door treadmill. After a little while he couldn’t help but notice that this chaps eyes instead of being glued to his heart rate monitor where spending quite a lot of time following Claire around the gym in the mirrored wall in front of the treadmill. Understandably Steve was a bit upset at such blatant ogling of his good lady, but seeing as the perpetrator looked like Captain America’s stronger big brother he wisely decided discretion was the better part of valour. After a little while however he began to notice that possibly due to his preoccupation with staring at Claire his running buddy had begun to drift ever further backward on his treadmill. Indeed obviously totally oblivious to his peril our American man mountain was rapidly running out of treadmill belt under his size 14 Nike’s.

I’ll draw a discreet veil over the next few seconds of that scene and leave the rest to your imagination. As I’m sure you’ve already guessed Steve managed to suppress his British sense of fair play and a rich dollop of karma was served up to our ogling American friend involving sudden changes of body trajectory, blood loss and presumably expensive dental reconstruction. The moral of this tale? don’t ogle persons of the opposite sex (male or female) in hotel gyms. Its bad form and is highly unlikely to end with the sort of perfectly choreographed sexual encounter so beloved of hollywood movies.

For men of course the ultimate nightmare if you’re a fully paid up member of the short & slightly overweight club like myself is to find yourself suddenly trapped in a room full of exercise freaks who look like their all limbering up for the next Olympics. The treadmills all have whippet thin blokes on who look like they can run all day. The weights machines all have lantern-jawed specimens astride their padded seats effortless pumping out reps without a bead of sweat popping out of their foreheads. And then there’s me in the corner pretending to stretch my hamstrings while my eyes furtively dart round the room wondering where would be least embarrassing to display my physical ineptitude.

This is dangerous ground for the middle-aged man. Misplaced male pride and rose-tinted memories of the body you had when you were eighteen which is now long-lost to father time can lead men to make some awesomely bad decisions. I’ve run on treadmills to the point of almost gibbering exhaustion just because the people either side of me were both there before I started and showed no signs of slowing down. I’ve lifted weights that have left my arms so destroyed  I’ve struggled to be able to raise a pint glass to my lips in the bar that evening.

I know it’s not just me, I’ve seen other kindred spirits make identical mistakes. I once watched one chap attempt to bench press a frankly ridiculous amount of weight. As soon as bar cleared the rests above his chest he was in trouble. One repetition was squeezed out of his trembling arms and then I watched in awful fascination as the steel bar remorselessly moved downwards till despite the desperate upwards pressure from every upper body muscle and sinew the poor man possessed he was pinned to the bench like a mouse who’s triggered a very large trap. He lay there for a few seconds futilely straining against the bar while it seemed everyone in the gym feigned not to notice his plight. Then slowly and agonizingly he began to roll the bar down his chest and over his stomach till he could sit up and wriggle out from his self-imposed trap. The poor man made a swift exit to a chorus of the suppressed snigger’s I alluded too earlier.

Anyway, enough of this reminiscing. Once again as I write this missive I find myself  once again stuck in a hotel a long way from home. This time it’s for a week and yes I have brought a pair of trainers with me. In my favour this Central American answer to Fawlty Towers I’m stuck in seems very popular with pretty much universally overweight Americans who resemble and sound like the Sheriff from Smokey and the Bandit. Judging by the vast amounts of wobbling folded and sunburnt flesh hanging out of inappropriate swimsuits around the pool I’m fairly confident the hotel gym will be quiet. Laid against me is my total and very British blue-collar inability to order anything but beer to drink. (Apart from at breakfast – I’m not that bad yet) Honestly, every time a waiter approaches me or I walk into the hotel bar to cool off I’m mentally resolved to order something fizzy and soft or tall and less calorific like a Gin and a slimline tonic ……. but each time my mouth opens “uno beero per favor” pops out seemingly of its own volition. It’s an unfortunate fact of life, but I do realise that just to negate this damage and maintain parity with my suspect fitness levels and weight at the start of the week I’m going to have to spend some unpleasant time sweating in the gym.

I’ve already cased the joint. Separate building from the hotel complex attached to the ‘Spa’. Glass windows on three sides so no nasty surprises and you can see who’s in there before committing to entry. Seems deserted every time I’ve passed it. Ideal in essence….. apart from one small problem. Its right next to a lovely shady outside bar by the pool staffed by a very nice chap who loves to talk about English Football. Twice I’ve been down there now fully intending to pound the treadmill and lift weights till all the fizzy local beer has been purged from my system. Twice I’ve turned left instead of right somehow and wobbled off a bar stool several hours later having only exercised my glass lifting arm and my vocal cords. There’s a pattern emerging here and it isn’t good for my prospects of carrying any fitness at all into this winters riding.

So anyway, hotel gyms – if you travel a lot you know you should, but I’m totally with you if you never quite get round to it like your faithful correspondent here.