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Spurred on by our podcast guests, I decided that maybe now was the right time to start thinking about exercise as fitness rather than physio.Β And so, I went about booking my first ever session with a personal trainer. Β 

Prior to this, the only gym I'd ever been in was at the local physiotherapy department. As a young person with a condition that affected my joints and muscles, I spent far too many painful and unproductive hours lifting my legs, "up, two, three, four and dowwwwn". This is where my dislike and distrust of exercise began. I stopped doing physio once I left home at eighteen and have been a sedentary fitness-phobe ever since.

Mike and James reassured me that there are increasing numbers of mainstream gyms with accessible equipment and staff trained to work with disabled people. I was impressed. Yet when I called a couple of these allegedly 'accessible' gyms and mentioned I used a wheelchair, the response didn't exactly inspire confidence. "Ummm, I don't really know if we have anything suitable for the di, for the... I'll get someone from membership services to give you a call," was the standard response. They never did phone back and to be honest, I was relieved.

Their ignorance was the perfect excuse for avoiding a gym full of perky twenty year olds doing squat jumps and lunges all around me. I was intimidated by the thought of wheeling into such a place. Everything seemed unwelcoming to disabled people - from the inappropriately named dumb-bells to the inaccessible step classes. Maybe the likes of me didn't belong in the gym?

I was worried that people would stare at me, that they'd laugh, but most importantly, I worried about what to wear. Β 

Lycra and I aren't exactly the best of friends and despite the stereotype, I'm one disabled person who doesn't own a single pair of elasticated waisted jogging bottoms. The best I could manage were a pair of jeans, boots and a rather fetching sweatshirt top. I was no vision of beauty in leisure wear but I was ready for action.Β Β Β 

Putting my misgivings aside, I eventually made an appointment at a mainstream gym, albeit attached to the rehabilitation ward at Stanmore Hospital. If I was going to exert myself, it was good to know there was an A&EΒ department within wheeling distance.Β Β 

At first glance the gym looked just like any other but on further inspection, I noticed a disproportionate number of wheelchair users, then I realised that some of the fitness equipment was ramped and some even had Velcro straps to secure errant and unwieldy limbs. Still, none of it looked accessible to me. Β 

My personal trainer was friendly and refreshingly unphased by my unique physique. He handed me a Physical Activity Readiness Questionnaire and rather than spend the next hour completing health and safety assessments, listing my impairments and detailing my next of kin, all I had to do was tick 6 boxes and I was declared 'physical activity ready'. Hurrah! Β 

With limited mobility, it can be difficult to exercise until you're breathless but when I mentioned this to my trainer, he just nodded and whisked me over to the first contraption - a set of bike pedals that you move with your arms. If I half stood, reached over awkwardly and grabbed on for dear life, I could just about move them forward. He set the timer and three minutes later, the LED display informed me that I'd burned off 6 calories.

As I wheeled about from machine to machine, I noticed that there was a real mix of ages, body shapes and gym wear. There were a few other disabled people there but not a paralympian in sight. No one was laughing or staring – they were all too wrapped up in their own worlds to even notice me. I was a bit disappointed.

The majority of equipment was, as I’d suspected, not accessible, but there were still a surprising number of machines to try. Some I had to  transfer onto whilst others I wheeled up to and remained in my chair while I pulled weights down, pushed forward with my legs or circled my arms around. Once I remembered that my social worker wasn't lurking around the corner re-assessing me as I exercised my care package away, I began to relax, and dare I say it, even enjoy the experience. 

My favourite machine was one you'd associate with 30 stone weight-lifters on 'Britain's Strongest Man'. Here I was, a 5 stone contender for Britain's Weakest Woman, sitting astride a bench and pulling a set of weights just a few millimetres towards my body. After 12 of these miniature bench presses, I was knackered, I'd worked up a slight sweat on my upper lip and it was definitely time to call it a day.

So, after an hour long session, am I now a gym convert? Β I certainly found my time with a personal trainer very different to my experiences of physio:at the gym I felt more in control, at times exhilarated and always encouraged. I would go again. As for the exercise I enjoyed most? Β That involved me wheeling to the cafe, raising a weighty mug of hot chocolate with whipped cream to my mouth and happily restoring the 36 precious calories I'd lost during my workout.