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Gym- my second home. As sad as it, I belong to the crowd of people who, bar the occasional jog after work or exercise on the weekend, am forced to work-out indoors.

I have my little routine that I do every session- cycle to warm up my legs, row to warm up my upper body and then slog it on the treadmill for twenty minutes. I then move to the floor for sit-ups and end off with some high paced stepping on yet another machine. After that I stretch and then its home time. If I feel like a change, I do a circuit. It's all good, except it gets tragically boring. This is really where my story begins.

We have all seen them advertised on television, we have all mocked them, and we have all laughed at them. Most of us have sat around pointing out what an extreme waste of money they are and most of us have confidently protested that there is no possible way they could provide a person with a good work out.

I am talking about none other than the Fitness Flyer. I am sure everyone has seen the advert on T.V., the one with the gorgeous model, in a skimpy, Lycra bodysuit, swinging her legs backwards and forwards, huge grin on her face, hair and make-up flawless, and absolutely no sweat anywhere.

The advert really makes the machine appear pointless and simple, which is the exact opposite of what the one at my gym, is like. The machine at my gym, the so called Fitness Flyer, is far more advanced than simply swinging your legs backwards and forwards, pendulum style. It's technical, it's frightening and it requires the same amount of concentration as a quantum physicist and the same amount of coordination as a Russian ballerina. These two important factors failed to stifle my curiosity and before I knew it I was thinking about giving the Fitness Flyer a run for its money.

Now, instead of simply swinging your legs backwards and forwards, you actually strap them onto foot pedals and half run-half cycle. The reason you are not quite running is because there is no impact on your joints what so ever, yet you are not quite cycling either as although your feet are doing the same bicycle movement, there is no seat- thus you are standing. That's not all, as on top of that, you have to add in something for your arms too. Basically, you hang onto these two handles, which believe me would work out if they kept still, but that's not the case. They move in opposite directions to your legs. Take a second to try and picture all of that.

Now I have watched people on this machine for months and noticed the following; people seem to enjoy it, people get good work outs from it and people seem to manage its advanced requirements. I have never seen anyone actually get hurt, so finally I pluck up the courage to give it a bash. If anyone belongs to a gym, they will know the feeling one gets when trying out a new piece of equipment. It's the feeling that every single person in the entire gym is watching your every move- which is devastating, as the ultimate goal is not to loose weight, not to get some exercise or to feel good about yourself but to look cool and remain calm and collected at all times.

Putting the watchful eyes aside however, I begin to climb on. Once uneasily perched on the two foot pedals, I look down and remember the straps. I cautiously lean down and fasten them, in the process almost falling once, before a sudden realisation hits me. What the hell am I doing? Why am I tying myself into a machine? How am I going to get off this thing-FOOTSTRAPS!!!??! But it's too late. I am on and have gone past the point of no return. I mindlessly enter a couple of random details into the screen; weight, pace, coffin size and time, which the shortest of, was ten minutes, and before I knew it I was off, with the flashing bright words-Enjoy your work out-as my only encouragement.

Understand, from my point of view on this machine, I look like a $%#&% idiot. It's all arms and legs. Everything is going round, my arms are coming round my head without me even knowing it, and as uncomfortable as it is, I am too petrified to let go the handles. The actual action is inhumane, as since you are half cycling-half running with your feet strapped in and no seat, you are constantly ahead of yourself, with your legs aggressively hooking up behind you. It really feels as though you are going far too far forward and are on the brink of coming off the front of the machine. Cunningly though, the designer has built in a large metal bar as a feature and thus it would be impossible to fall. This didn't really hold much comfort for me at this point. It was all too awful for words. In fact I couldn't even look around to see if anyone was watching in fear that something would go wrong, but if anyone was, I am sure they were laughing.

I look down at the clock, ah Christ; I have only been going for two minutes. So I think the unthinkable, and yes, I attempt the undoable. I try to stop and get off while I am still going. By the time I remember the foot straps that so slyly hold my feet in I have let go the handles. I am now half running-half cycling, feet strapped in and no seat, body at a 45 degree angle forward and at an unbelievable pace, with no upper body support.

I realise what the handles are for. I flail, hands searching, body now 20 degree angle forward. I panic and tell myself to lean back. I am thinking it loud enough for people to hear it. Lean back, lean back… my body makes its way upright, but momentum, sadly for me, plays its role and I start my journey backwards. Please be aware at this point I am still strapped in, my arms are still flapping about trying with little success to keep me balanced and I my legs are still going forwards and around at a scary pace. I can only imagine what I looked like from the outside.

In my blind panic I notice a coy gym assistant has sidled up on my left. White eyed, fronting mouth, panic stricken and petrified for the safety of my life, I loll my head around and look him in the eyes. Between my violent rocking and contorting he very coolly leans in and pushes the emergency stop button. The machine slows down and stops.

With the hope of keeping any dignity at all, I look at him, towel my face, put my hair behind my ear and as calmly and coolly as possible, without my voice cracking, remark, Oh, I didn't see that button.

I dismount and walk away form the machine-the animal without looking back. Ignoring the stretching area and my burning desire to lie down and cry in it, I walk straight out of the door and go home.

I think I will stick to my boring routine after all and leave the Fitness Flyer to the professionals.