Memory.

I was rowing. Pulling my wire to a different tune, pulling a load against maximum air/magnetic resistance. Pulling with vigour. Back straight - posture checked against a blurred duplicate also known to me as my less photogenic twin. Always a risky business, reflection checking in the vanity fair of gym-world. I would simper something about "health concerns" if I was ever challenged about looking at myself during a live act, not checking is simply too dangerous. I accidentally applied the back- bent posture a few years ago having taken my eyes off my double for a session and could barely walk for a week - not a good option, the bbo. A silent accusation of preening is a small price worth paying.

And I was rowing. Seat doing the coaster slide, feet clamped for better purchase, legs pumping, hands callousing, arse aching, feet cramping. The Concept 2 Model D Rower. Rowing to health, rowing to fitness, twenty eight to thirty two revolutions a minute. Drag, drag - what a drag. Good sweat, heavy breathing, heart pounding, calorie burning.

I could just about see the TV screens helpfully positioned for the exclusive use of the two rows of exercise cyclists, regiments of super-models and the odd natty-fatty, all immaculately turned out in a sports designer's wet-dream vision of carefully arranged lycra, and not a composure threatening sweat droplet to dampen their brought-to-read-whilst-exercising mags. No sweat, no pounding. No need of the TV screens. But with a little head craning, a carefully stolen squinny, a frozen moment between rows, I spotted on the nearest screen a feature on the Hitch Hikers Guide to the Galaxy author Douglas Adams. Famous also for . . . making a rowing machine - a Concept 2 Model D rowing machine, his last sitting place.

I had read somewhere that he died - mid row. Rowing to keep fit in a Los Angeles gym. Died of a heart attack. At the age of 49. An age not a million miles from mine. Curiously I felt less like rowing as this nightmarish image flashed up in my mind of me keeling over like a floppy toy which then squatted there like an obstinate toad. The top part of my body grounded, my legs stubbornly lashed to their foot holders, an obscene tangle of limbs and somethings gone badly wrong on rowing machine number 7. The nearest the corner TV screen machine. The end machine.

NB since this piece was written I have learnt that it was actually a treadmill that did for DA. So I'm back on the rower and now giving treadmills a wider berth.