t’s rare that someone looks forward to exercise all of the time – even if one enjoys playing sports (as I do), or can barely remember the direct route home from the office (or not, at the moment) because they always stop off at the gym first. Even professional athletes talk of wanting to stay in bed and skip training. I used to do what I call – many apologies – “gym ’n’ swim”, which is what you’d imagine. I never did one without the other, because the opportunity to cool down in the water after time on the treadmill or bike – and the strenuous activity of watching others lift weights – was too inviting. Even if my shoulders ached with fatigue and I only did a few laps, I felt so good afterwards. I don’t like to write that because it will annoy plenty of people, just as when runners told me about the “high” that running gave them, while it gave me the sensation that my lungs were made of concrete. What is this high, I wanted to counter. Where does it hide? But a couple of friends wrote books about it, and it felt rude not to give it a go. I am still not good at running, which is slightly dispiriting to admit. But when I crossed my first 5k finishing line after taking it up again, I felt elated. A short distance, yes, but it’s a hard slog when you feel sick for the duration. It was almost as though the redder my face, the happier I felt. I could talk about endorphins here, but I am not going to because people talk about endorphins too much. I want to describe the effect without the science: which is the appreciation and wonder of the body. Not the shape or size or extent of its ableness, but reaching its full potential – or heading that way – whatever its limitations. Starting to move it in any significant way, and regularly, is the hardest part, and I admit that I am, at present, at the point of having to restart. But I know it will be worth it; that – conversely – after working my legs until they’re heavy, I will have a spring in my step. Team sports add an element of social pleasure and the reward of potential triumph. No doubt there are people sitting at home with ice-packs pressed to strained glutes, or elbows in slings, who are raising an eyebrow. But I am sure they will go back, like besotted lovers, to the thrill of a pumping heart. Or – fine, I’ll say it – those glorious endorphins.