Right, you’re up to date now on the fact that I go to the gym. I’m at the stage where I’ve been going for a few years and I really quite enjoy it. I mean it’s still been a slog and can take a monumental effort at times to get motivated, but I’m much trimmer than I used to be and, well.. yes, I’m in reasonably good shape now. The turning point for me was a few years ago and happened when I started to notice a change, which others then noticed too.
I remember walking past the mirror after showering one morning, when I caught a glimpse of a rib that I hadn’t seen before – I was elated. After what seemed like weeks of slogging my guts out, lifting weights and running on the treadmill, I was finally able to see that the hard work was starting to pay off. It was about at the same time when a work colleague said “You’re looking trim, have you been working out?” ‘YES, YES!!! Fucking yes, I have and I’m so glad you noticed!!’ I thought, as I nodded and confirmed “Yeah, a little bit”.
Anyway, I was on my way to a gym session last week when I bumped into a couple of friends who had just finished a workout and were leaving. “Hey, are you coming to do the strongman session with us next week? Come on, it’s a great workout” The strongman class is a session where a personal trainer takes a group through a number of different circuits. It’s slightly different to a regular circuit training session, using very different weights on individual stations and is designed to be that much harder. I didn’t really want to go, but they applied peer pressure and I couldn’t really think of a good reason not to. So out of ideas and seemingly cornered, I agreed to go to the next session.
On the night of the class in question, I arrive just in time, if not slightly early for once. First, the warm up. I stretch my legs, in anticipation of being sent on a run. “Right, we’ll start on the bag” says the trainer. “Oh, right” I say, scouring the floor for gloves to use on the big punch bag on the ground in front of me. “Oh, you’re not going to be punching it, you’re going to be catching it and passing it on.” ‘Oh God’ “Here” he says, catching me slightly unawares, as he tosses the dense 4 ft tall bag up in the air in my direction.
Now here I have an embarrassing confession – I can’t catch. I’m a total butter fingers and it’s the reason I tried, and failed, to avoid playing rugby and cricket at school. Surely it’s always far easier to avoid a sport you’re not very good at. Better that, than to put oneself through the humiliation of dropping the rugby ball just yards from the try line every time, whilst listening to the despairing groans of your team mates.
Well this isn’t a try line, it’s a gym. I’m now in my thirties and my teammates are the other guys in the class. The pressure I’m putting myself under though is just as intense, as almost in slow motion, the bag rotates through the air, getting closer and closer. It feels like it is heading straight for my face, as I take a step back and bend my knees slightly in anticipation.
If I drop this then I will I will hear derision from the others in the class and in an instant, I will be transported back to the rugby field in 1989. ‘Catch it, catch it, don’t fuck it up, you’ve GOT to catch this!’ I open my arms, ready to envelope the bag as it comes into contact. I’ve no idea how heavy this thing is, when suddenly it slams into my chest. ‘Arms, use your arms, clasp it!’ My right arm wraps around it, but it seems to slip from my left. The angle of my right arm won’t hold it on its own, and I feel my grip loosening. It’s going to fall, I’m going to drop it and what I feared most is about to happen. ‘No, don’t drop it you muppet!’ I lift my left knee as a counter to my right arm, which gives just enough balance for me to wrap my left arm around it again. My grip is now firm, as I realise that I have caught it and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Nice one” says the instructor, ”Now throw it over your head to the guy behind you and go to the back of the line, ready for the next catch.”
‘Oh God, here we go again...’
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