Hitting the gym (Week 14)
"Such strenuous living I just don't understand, when in just seven days I can make you a man."
If Frank N Furter could dive into his lab and mould a perfect human in just one week, I figured I had a shot. Of course, The Rocky Horror Picture Show was hardly a documentary. In my case, the lab would be my local gym, filled with medieval racks and muscle-bending weights and pulleys.
Let me start by saying I hate gyms. Always have. Maybe it's the preening and posturing in front of the countless mirrors they all seem to have. Maybe it's the intimidation of the machines themselves and the thick-necked muscleheads straining themselves into contorted pink puff balls. Still, the research - and even my family doc - suggest that older dudes like me need to use it or they will definitely lose it. Meaning muscle mass, and a slow descent to the grave.
Enter Harley.
The club I go to for swimming just happens to have a great gym (or so I'm told) and they employ a guy named Harley to walk you through a "smart" workout routine in the weight room.
I met with Harley at 6:00 am on a Monday morning (I'm not making this up!) for a consultation. Harley is part metaphysical guru, part health advisor and part sadist. With equal abandon, he'd toss out words like "mindfulness" and "gastrocnemius" with the expectation that I understood how each one related to the other. I did not.
Harley also did a poke and prod of my body. I kinda expected what he would say. "Yeah, you're really weak in this spot," "See, you have very limited motion here" and "Hey, does this hurt?" For the record, Harley, despite what my answer was at 6:00 am that morning yes, it hurt, and not just a little.
Now, I'm not just some random couch potato bringing a fat and flaccid body into no-mans-land. I figured I was in reasonable shape with all the active stuff I do. Here's what I discovered. I ain't.
Being a runner, I immediately gravitated to the machine that worked my legs. Some ripped t-shirt behemoth had put the setting to its heaviest just before my arrival, as if to say "match that, old man!" Without an ounce of shame, I replaced the peg into the absolute easiest setting, which is exactly where the grandmothers have it. It's all about the reps, something Harley had implanted in my brain from the outset.
And so I soldiered on every day for a week, despite the soreness and tenderness. I actually did feel myself getting stronger by Day 7, so much so that I put the weight setting into its second notch! I knew that this would not be a daily thing going forward, but that I would have to grimly plod away from time to time and hopefully keep Death away from my doorstep. Once a week ought to be just fine. I'll just have to be content with the Dad Bod and forget about visions of rippling abs.
On my final day in the gym, the attendant at the front desk hailed me on my way out. "So," he said with a broad and possibly sarcastic grin, "Didja have fun?"
Without a second hesitation, I returned his volley. "No, no I did not."
NEXT WEEK: Reading aloud for 30 minutes a day
If Frank N Furter could dive into his lab and mould a perfect human in just one week, I figured I had a shot. Of course, The Rocky Horror Picture Show was hardly a documentary. In my case, the lab would be my local gym, filled with medieval racks and muscle-bending weights and pulleys.
Let me start by saying I hate gyms. Always have. Maybe it's the preening and posturing in front of the countless mirrors they all seem to have. Maybe it's the intimidation of the machines themselves and the thick-necked muscleheads straining themselves into contorted pink puff balls. Still, the research - and even my family doc - suggest that older dudes like me need to use it or they will definitely lose it. Meaning muscle mass, and a slow descent to the grave.
Enter Harley.
The club I go to for swimming just happens to have a great gym (or so I'm told) and they employ a guy named Harley to walk you through a "smart" workout routine in the weight room.
I met with Harley at 6:00 am on a Monday morning (I'm not making this up!) for a consultation. Harley is part metaphysical guru, part health advisor and part sadist. With equal abandon, he'd toss out words like "mindfulness" and "gastrocnemius" with the expectation that I understood how each one related to the other. I did not.
Harley also did a poke and prod of my body. I kinda expected what he would say. "Yeah, you're really weak in this spot," "See, you have very limited motion here" and "Hey, does this hurt?" For the record, Harley, despite what my answer was at 6:00 am that morning yes, it hurt, and not just a little.
Now, I'm not just some random couch potato bringing a fat and flaccid body into no-mans-land. I figured I was in reasonable shape with all the active stuff I do. Here's what I discovered. I ain't.
And so I soldiered on every day for a week, despite the soreness and tenderness. I actually did feel myself getting stronger by Day 7, so much so that I put the weight setting into its second notch! I knew that this would not be a daily thing going forward, but that I would have to grimly plod away from time to time and hopefully keep Death away from my doorstep. Once a week ought to be just fine. I'll just have to be content with the Dad Bod and forget about visions of rippling abs.
On my final day in the gym, the attendant at the front desk hailed me on my way out. "So," he said with a broad and possibly sarcastic grin, "Didja have fun?"
Without a second hesitation, I returned his volley. "No, no I did not."
NEXT WEEK: Reading aloud for 30 minutes a day
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