Refried Neurons

I’m sitting on a plane now, waiting for take-off, scaring the shit out of everyone with my cough. They probably think it’s COVID or yet another flu, basically cursing me for being yet another inconsiderate sick person who decided their holiday is more important than the health of everyone else.
The issue is I’m not sick. What I am, though, is definitely not fit enough.
I spent the last month doing absolutely nothing. It might not have been dry January, but it was definitely no-exercise January. And not even by choice.
In December I went diving and, to finish it off, decided to do a few boat jumps. On video my last jump looks very vertical and impressive. In reality, I somehow managed to damage my coccyx. The doctor very clearly told me: until the end of January, no exercise. Nothing.
So I listened.

I arrived today at Luton Airport an hour before departure, as I usually do when I don’t have checked-in luggage – not expecting my physical condition to be put to the test.
Luton is the nearest airport to me, and for those who’ve never had the pleasure, it’s small for London standards. Around thirty gates. Usually no need to rush. Today, however, it was very busy, so I got myself Fast Track, feeling quietly smug. There was no queue, I dropped my two bags and waited on the other side.
And waited.
And waited.
The line was blocked because the system had apparently decided that every single suitcase needed to be checked for explosives. When it came to mine, I was praying it wouldn’t. Lucky me, both of my bags went to the side for extra checks. Numbers 11 and 13.

One staff member on duty.

No watch.

By this time they were theoretically closing the gate.
When it finally got to my second bag, the lady said:  ‘oh sorry, the machine only scanned half of it, so it needs to go again’. For the love of ….. Once it was back in the scanner, everything stopped. No bags coming. Nothing moving.
It turned out the conveyor belt had stopped because someone else’s trouser belt got stuck in it.
Eventually, someone from staff climbed over the machine and pulled the belt out of the conveyor. I got my backpack with about twenty minutes to departure time and ran.
It’s the middle of winter and I’m flying to Poland, where temperatures are around –20°C. Heavy boots, long winter coat, backpack full of warm clothes and an extra small tote.
Jesus. This should be an Olympic sport.
I once heard from friends training rugby that the best way to do proper conditioning is to try running with a bag in your hands across a very busy London train station – moving obstacles and all.
So here’s an idea, maybe not for the Olympics, but for Tough Mudder or corporate team building: make people run through an airport in full winter gear, carrying all their bags.
Mine was more like a run-march than an actual run, but still, I was the last person to enter the plane. I definitely think my daily workout is done. It might not have been the longest distance, but the extra weight and obstacles made it very, very special.
Okay. I’ve stopped spitting my lungs out now.
I bet everyone around me is relieved.