only upPosted: March 8, 2012
My eyes open and I can see the large green figures on the alarm, 04:55. In just a few minutes, the room will be full of people trying to sell me things I don’t need or tell me news I don’t care about, courtesy of the radio. I climb out of my chair, ( since the operation and radiation, I feel most comfortable sleeping in a recliner ), and manage to spend the next forty five minutes doing nothing and it is time to go.
The club buzzes with people working hard, glistening moving from machine to machine or running endlessly in place as they absorb images from the endless TV’s mounted up and down the wall.
The trainer asks me about my week workout wise. I tell him the truth, I could barely move a single plate the rest of the week, but today I feel strong. We do some light stretching and already I am tired. Then basic pushups, he shows me two new machines, then we do chinups with a counterbalanced stack. I do 25, then rest, , I have the biceps of Popeye, then 10 more, and suddenly I have hit the wall. I am out of gas. I stop, and have to stand bent over supporting myself with my hands on my knees.
In my rugby days, that was the sign. The signal of weakness, poor fitness, or even pain when you knew you had him. His tackle would be a weak grab instead of a bone crushing hit. You could cruise up at 7/8th speed and he couldn’t match your burst when you turned it up. The opportunities to exploit him were countless.
And here I am sucking wind after 30 minutes and little resistance. The poor instructor probably thinks I am going to croak, probably planning the CPR now ( don’t worry I don’t want your breath of life unless you turn into a beautiful woman! )
I catch my breath, and I can’t tell who is happier, the trainer or me . We walk over and he shows me one more exercise which basically amounts to lying on a mat for a couple minutes. I quickly master the exercise, and we part until next week.
For me, no where to go but up.