Getting a Wii bit fitter

I've just had my first boxing match and I don't have a scratch on me. Not a bruise or a cut and I still have both my ears intact. OK, it wasn’t a real fight, but after having just finished off my virtualised opponent for the third time in a row, the only feeling that outstripped the tiredness in my arms was my smugness.

Playing Wii Sports for the first time was an experience that I found to be both addictive and torturous. Call me a glutton for punishment, but when working up a sweat is that much fun, it’s worth it.

I bought my Wii after being bombarded with a barrage of hype. It came with the much-publicised ‘Wii Sports’ and the unique controller setup of the Wii Remote (or ‘Wiimote’) and the Nunchuck, that allow players to have their arm movements in the real world mimicked in the games they play.

A quick bout of gaming on the Wii can easily turn into a near-serious workout, as I learnt during my first marathon session with the machine. Here’s how it went.

Tennis
I thought I’d get my session started with a round or seventeen of Wii Sports Tennis. I figured that it was reasonably physically demanding and a good enough tutorial to get into the swing of things. It was fun, watching my ‘Mii’, a playable avatar of sorts, scrambling around the court and volleying the ball with the type of force Agassi would have been proud of. Within the space of about 15 minutes, I started to feel the effects of my maniacal arm waving kicking in.

Exercise value: Fairly taxing, especially when played on the higher difficulty settings. It can even be considered a decent warm-up routine to a serious exercise regimen of weight-lifting.

Baseball
Baseball was a much more physically subdued, if still fun, affair. The main focus was hand-eye co-ordination. Using the Wiimote as a bat was fairly intuitive, but I didn’t find it to be as physically demanding as tennis. While my batting performance was less than stellar, I found pitching to be slightly more taxing though not by a significant degree.

Exercise value: Baseball is more a method of testing reaction time than anything else. Still, hitting a home run requires more than a lazy flick of the arm.

Boxing
Ah yes, the boxing game. I found this to be the most physically intense game of the lot. Flailing my arms around in a bad impersonation of Muhammad Ali ("floating like a bee and stinging a butterfly") had me more worked up than tennis and baseball combined. After a few rounds, my arms started getting tired, a problem I’m sure The Greatest never had. After a while I decided to give my arms a breather, but I was more than ready for the next activity in my agenda.

Exercise value: The greatest. It may not be too intuitive at times, because you have to position your hands in a specific way to have a protective stance, but making mistakes only means more arm waving.

Bowling
Bowling was the least physically taxing of all the titles on the disc, but definitely the most addictive. Like baseball, hand-eye co-ordination took centre stage. A run-up isn’t required, but I added it anyway, if only to add a level of authenticity.

Exercise value: There wasn’t much exercise value to bowling, but it’s a sure-fire hit to have at a party.

Golf
Similar to bowling, this game wasn’t too taxing on the arms, but it was a boatload of fun. The strength of a swing made by the club was determined by how hard I swung the Wiimote. I couldn’t use my tricks from tennis here, as accuracy and strength worked in tandem.

Exercise value:Not great, possibly due to the lack of a course coming packaged with the Wii. It is a great tool to help measure strength though.

At the end of my session, my arms felt like two leaden pipes attached to my shoulders. Nevertheless, I felt that the process of getting them to feel like that was worth it. Who ever knew having fun could be such hard work?

Horsing around

Horse riding has a regal air about it. On TV it looks like such a graceful activity - the riders sporting blazers and velvet hats, and the horses always shiny and manicured.

But for those folk who didn't grow up in the saddle, visiting the stables and attempting to ride the beast can be quite an eye-opener. Here's my experience:

The first challenge is getting into the saddle. It's like climbing a 1.5m randomly shifting step. For those of us not used to climbing giant moving steps, this is impossible, so most riding facilities pre-empt the humiliation and have a bench of sorts enabling aspiring riders to get up.

Once on top the "fun" starts. The guide tells me to steer the horse, named Sporty, out of the camp. But Sporty is going nowhere. Sporty is eating hay. In a very unflattering effort to retain my balance while pulling on the reins with all my might, I eventually dislodge Sporty's face from the haystack and get him facing in the right direction.

I double-click my tongue at him and say "hayha!" like they do in cowboy movies, but Sporty merely swats his tail at me as if to say "shoo fly".

"Kick him!" yells the guide, who's already leading the rest of the group into the pasture. So I kick. Sporty swats again, this time with a little more gusto. "Like this!" shouts the guide while he digs his heel into his horse's thigh. "Oh?!" I say sheepishly and, lo and behold, Sporty's finally on the move.

Riding a horse is nothing like riding a bike at all. First of all, a bike doesn't stop at will to eat wildflowers – a bike has no will of its own whatsoever. Secondly, a bike immediately responds to any and all instructions and doesn't swat you with its tail at the mere suggestion of a change in direction.

So we're walking, Sporty and I, and it's good. It feels like someone is twisting knives in both my thighs, but it's good - the air is fresh and crisp, the outdoors is beautiful and Sporty has only had to stop for a poop once, and we've almost completed our first trip around the course. Yup, life's good!

"Are you ready to canter?" asks the guide. I nod. "When the horse goes faster you have to get into the rhythm and move your body like this," he says thrusting his hips into the air, then down and up again. "Oh my goodness, that's obscure!" I think to myself. "I can't do that here. Not in front of everybody!" I'm feeling panicky. But before I get a chance to object he shouts "C'mon Sporty!" and we're going (and Sporty doesn't swat at him).

Now we're really going. It feels like I'm going flat-out down a dirt road in a car with no suspension. My teeth are clattering and I'm hanging on for dear life. "Move with the horse," shouts the guide. "I am moving with the horse you idiot! Does it look like I got off? Do you think I like chewing on my own tongue?" I shout back, but only in my mind: I haven't got breath to talk. "Move your lower body with the horse," he says again.

Cautiously I start pushing up out of the saddle – feeling a little awkward. I bounce and push, bounce and push, my teeth stop rattling. My bouncing and pushing synchronises with Sporty's movements and together we're cantering. What a feeling! A freedom I've never felt before. The wind in my hair, the sun in my face. Just running for no apparent reason. Just running because we can.

I realise I should have worn my sports bra…

At this advanced speed we soon reach the end of the trail. I carefully get off and lead Sporty back to the stable. My legs are numb – I don't know if it's from the excitement or the exercise, but I have a feeling that I'm going to regret it in the morning. But it will all be well worth it, I'm positively exhilarated. This is so much better than any old movie, this is R100 well spent.

Shimmying to your own beat

It was with much anticipation that I entered my second belly dancing class, and I was not disappointed.

This week, the class started out with a social evening. We gathered around in a circle chatting and getting to know those we had been shimmying and shaking our booties alongside in previous weeks. It was very relaxed, and as we talked about why we'd decided to give belly dancing a go, a common thread became evident.

The women in the class are as diverse as they are alike. They come from different backgrounds, are at different stages in life and have different goals – but they're connected by a desire to have fun, get fit and feel sexy. And everyone is in hearty agreement that belly dancing is not as easy as it looks!

Back to class
When the class began and the music replaced the girly chatter, we all took our places in a circle around the large sunlit room. The mood grew a bit more focused as those of us still very new concentrated on trying to make our hips move in the same gentle and alluring way instructor Crystal's hips were moving.

It is mesmerising watching a professional move with such ease and grace, and her encouraging smile almost makes you believe it's possible for you to do the same. That is, until you catch sight of yourself in the mirror and realise that what your hips are doing is hardly graceful or elegant.

However, Crystal is kind enough to keep encouraging me and, after a little while, I see her eyes light up and know I have finally got it right. Or at least, better.

The comforting thing is that we're all in the same boat. A few of us tend to get frustrated when we can't get a move right the first time, but Crystal wisely points out that if we could all belly dance, we wouldn't be in a beginners' class. It's not often you get told it's OK not to be perfect at something!

Dancing like no-one is watching
Over the next few weeks I let go of the ridiculous notion that everyone was watching me and criticising my every move, and I felt much less self-conscious. The moves became more fluid and easier to perform, and I began to thoroughly enjoy my newfound confidence. (I made sure that I steered clear of any mirrors lest this feeling be rudely interrupted by reality, though.)

The more I focused, let the music's beat dictate the movement of my hips and fixed my mind on contracting my stomach muscles to lift and flick my hips, the easier it became.

Four weeks in and loving it
I have now completed the month of belly-dancing classes which I had been assigned and must say that I'm hooked.

Some of the moves are now much easier to do and, although the classes have become increasingly demanding, the fun factor has also increased.

My stomach muscles do actually feel a little tighter and I seem to have better control of them than I did before. I can also feel that I am a bit more flexible than I was when I began and can almost shimmy without losing a beat too often - almost.

In fact, I have become so intrigued with this form of dance and the subtle, but noticeable, effect it is having on my body and mind that I have signed up for the course.

I highly recommend it to any woman who wants to get fit and have fun doing so. The classes are fun and sociable, and the dance moves sensual. A lot of belly-dancing classes claim they will 'unleash your inner Goddess' and while I'm not sure mine has awoken from her slumber yet, I can definitely say that she has been warned.

Belly-dancing for beginners

I've interviewed belly-dancers for Health24; I've written about the history and benefits of belly-dancing, but I've never actually got my belly out and jiggled it in a class full of strangers. Until now.

was nervous as I entered my first class at Feminine Divine dance studio, but, phew, not a super-model in sight. First hurdle over. The second hurdle was just as easy: most of the women were casually dressed in gym trousers and t-shirts. My belly could retain its privacy.

It's not gentle
After that, though, it wasn't easy. Just the warm-ups had me panting and aching in places that had beforehand been in eternal slumber.

The first move I perfected (and I use that term loosely) is what I now know is a 'shimmy' and after that, I had what is probably the most fun I have had in ages (in spite of a few hiccups with the coin belt, which did some downward shimmying of its own).

The verdict
It was an amazing workout and every muscle tingled afterwards, although strangely enough, I felt relaxed at the same time.

The following day, despite fearing I would be in agony, I felt relatively fine, which goes to show the benefits of stretching after class.

So even though I had spent the majority of the day worrying about the embarrassment of being the class clown, I ended up thoroughly enjoying myself. I am really looking forward to the next class.

Dancing

I've always regretted the fact that I stopped dancing at the age of 12. So when the opportunity to dust off my dancing shoes arose, I was keen to give it another go.

This time, however, I didn't plan to don my ballet pumps. Oh no, a form of dancing that didn't previously exist in my vocabulary was on the agenda. I signed up for hip hop.

Breakdancing roots
Hip hop has its origins in street dancing. Most of us are familiar with one of the earliest forms, "breakdancing" (think guys spinning on their heads or keeping just their palms on the ground while defying the law of gravity). This is also where the widely-used terms B-Girl and B-Boy – for "Breakdance Girl" and "Breakdance Boy" – come from.

Things have evolved, and while the experts still absolutely push their bodies to apparently impossible limits, toned-down versions of hip hop are widely practised. Think of Britney Spears in music videos, and you'll get the picture. It's characterised by fast, jerky movements, with just a hint of goofiness and playfulness. Plus, there's a lot of bouncing. Where breakdancing emphasises floor work, hip hop focuses more on upright dancing. It's reminiscent of jazz, but more modern and funky.

And then, of course, there's the dress code and music that forms part of the hip-hop package: sagging pants and hoodies, and artists such as Jay-Z, Eminem, Kanye West and Snoop Dogg.

So, off I went
I pitched up at the Durbanville School of Dance one Wednesday evening. Things seemed pretty chilled. There were about 30 of us, all lined up in our best gym gear and ready to be initiated.

Sadly, any ideas about mirroring Britney were shattered within the first five minutes. In fact, the entire session was, for me, a write-off. I couldn't keep up with the instructor, my arms and feet were all over the place, and my mind whizzed. This was tough.

We had started with "warm-up exercises" – two 45-second dance routines, aimed at introducing us to a few basic steps and preparing our bodies for the more intricate work that would follow. With tongue sticking out of the corner of my mouth, I tried my best to get the steps right.

Sasha, the instructor, had kicked off by showing us how to do "pops" – a move where you flex and release muscles to simulate shock. Our first pop imitated being punched in the stomach: your stomach muscles contract while your shoulders jerk forward. These were combined with foot- and arm-work; and soon we were exposed to another hip-hop classic called "locking": freezing in different positions, such as with your arms in a box shape, fingers first facing upwards and then forwards.

This sounds pretty basic; I was lost. It's one thing to do everything slowly, but quite another to do intricate sequences to really fast-paced music. Eventually, I had to lose the arms so that I could just focus on my feet – it was easier, but still no walk in the park.

After the warm-ups, Sasha showed us the first steps of a longer dance routine. Again, it was the choreography rather than the physical challenge that I stumbled over (along with many others). She assured us, however, that things would start looking better even by the second class.

Getting there slowly
Sasha was right: things were a lot better during the next class. Miraculously, some of the moves had "sunk in" over the weekend, and I slowly started to get the hang of things. I suspect I still looked like a clown, but I was definitely feeling better as we went over the steps from in the previous class.

As I concentrated less on the steps, I found it easier to relax in the moves and I even started to add a bit of personal interpretation (which is, incidentally, one of the cornerstones of hip hop). Now that I was actually moving properly, I could also feel I was getting a workout.

As the weeks progressed, I really started enjoying myself and sorely missed the classes over the holidays.

Move over, Britney
Those first classes were the beginning of a journey that is now already in its third year, and I've never looked back.

Thanks to hip hop, I've rediscovered the pleasure of moving to the rhythm of music and I love the fact that I'm challenging my body to do things it's never done before.

I'm not Britney yet, but getting there...

Walking

Just doing it

Exercise does not come naturally to me. Which is why I put out my walking clothes and shoes in the evening before I go to sleep.

If given the chance to think up an excuse (it's raining, my ankle is sore, it's rubbish collection day so the streets are filled with vagrants pushing trollies, I have a headache, I'm cold, my nose is running), I'll find one. Which is why I don't give myself the opportunity.

The alarm goes, and before I can talk myself out of it, I am halfway round the first block. Come rain or shine. It's been four months now.

Morning, but not noon or night

I am not a morning person, but I have learnt that either exercise happens in the morning, or not at all. Fortunately I start work fairly late (9.30), so I can stick to my resolution of several years ago never again to get up before it is light, even in winter – unless I am going on holiday. In my defence, this is a reaction to the fact that for 16 years I got up at 6.15 every workday in order to get to my job on time. And then I had had enough.

Back to the road. The el-cheapo walking shoes I bought in January are starting to show the wear and tear, so I suspect I shall have to fork out some real cash and buy something decent.

Doggy matters

The Maltese poodle that bit me in January seems to have moved on – whether to a new address or to the Happier Hunting Ground I do not know. I sort of hope it is the latter. The sheepdogs and the Alsations wag their tails when they see me in the morning, but the Rottweiler on the corner still hurls himself snarling to the top of the two-metre fence. It has become part of the ritual of my morning walk and I felt quite disappointed when he was inside the house earlier this week and couldn't do his usual Hound-of-the-Baskervilles routine.

I walk for 30 minutes every morning and I find , as time goes by, that I am covering more distance. This morning, by the time I got home from my usual route, only 25 minutes had passed, and I kept going.

I am enjoying the cold weather and have also realised that there isn't really such a thing as bad weather – just the wrong clothing. I muffle up like an Eskimo before I head out these days.

The regulars

The corner café where I stop every morning to buy yoghurt and a banana is still a source of information and skinner. Zimbabwe, xenophobia, the peanut allergy of the cashier, the attractive delivery guy from the pie shop and security issues in the area remain the major topics of daily comment.

And then there are the regulars I meet on my route every morning. It is interesting when you do something at exactly the same time every day, that you get to know the people whose routines coincide with yours. The builders at number 74 arrive at the same time I pass by, and so do the three workers at the engineering works. The same people take their kids to school, go to buy a morning newspaper, and have a cigarette on their front verandas. A few weeks ago I had a stomach bug and didn't go walking for two mornings, and two people asked me where I had been.

My blood pressure is still low, I am sleeping better, I find it easier to concentrate, and I don't know if I am imagining things, but my walking outfit seems to fit a little less snugly than it did four months ago.

What's more, I dreamt the other night that I walked from Plettenberg Bay to George Airport, of all places. Maybe a sign of things to come?

Walking

Someone stole the seat of my exercise bike. It stands under the veranda in the back garden. In order to steal this, someone must have either negotiated the neighbours' dogs, a razor-wire fence, or a seven-foot vibracrete wall. A disturbing thought.
I replaced the seat with great difficulty, but I suspect the thief did some damage in the thieving process. It's just not comfortable and it shifts around.

At about the same time I read on Health24 that a walk of nine minutes a day reduces one's chances of a heart attack by 50%. I gave up walking after being mugged a few years ago, but suddenly decided that it was time to get over it and hit the road again.

I am fat and I am unfit, but nine minutes a day anyone can do. And increasing this by one minute a day means that I am now up to twenty minutes a day. Might not sound like a big deal to you, but it is to me. But back to the start.

Starting off
I dusted off my walking shoes, and went on an archaeological dig to find my walking outfit. (I used to just do the exercise bike in my pajamas.) I chose my time carefully – I start at eight sharp. All the schools in the area start then, so this means I don't have to deal with large numbers of uniformed youngsters on my morning walk. There are just enough people about to make me feel safe in a suburban sort of way. People in dressing gowns watering lawns and so on.

The good thing about walking is that you start off in energetic fashion and get yourself several blocks away from home – and even if you're tired, you can't give up, because you still have to get back. Whereas on the exercise bike, you are at home and can stop any time.

I have a set route I follow and if I get home before the time is up, I just keep walking until the alarm on the cellphone goes, and then turn back. Works for me.

I have found it good to start the day by doing something that is purely for myself. My aim? To finish a 5km walk comfortably by the time my birthday comes around in March. This will be my present to myself.