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 ...