One Last Rep Before the Gym Doors Close

This is the end my friends. One last rep before the gym doors close.

I’ve not been paying attention to the blog, much like most of us do with our bodies as we get older and less vain. But my neglect is not because of apathy; rather, I’ve had my focus drawn to another project.

This blog started as a means to raise my profile in order to gain a small following. It was ill-focused and poorly planned. Much like a beginner’s physical workout. You know; the sort of half-assed yet wildly enthusiastic brain tornado that manifests as a New Years resolution. You plan the gym fees, what days you’ll haul your backside to the palace of pose but you don’t quite consider what it takes to actually improve. Sure, you bought some nifty, skin hugging leggings, maybe a comedy gym tee-shirt that boasts false modesty, or parades your amateur status. But you never—not for one damned second—considered the sacrifice and cost of following that odd little dream.

Well, I’m just the same as you. Unless everything you do works first time and you’re a successful whatever-it-is-you’re-successful-at. That’s not me. That’s not most of us. Whether you’ve tried to turn things around, or stared longingly in the mirror and just hoped it was lying; this is what it is to want something else. This moment of doubt. This reflection of something that isn’t quite as clear and obvious as you hoped it would be. But that mirror doesn’t lie (unless you live in a carnival and your house smells of candyfloss and is tainted by the odour that is the improbable fear of clowns).

What am I talking about?

You tried the gym; it failed. You bought a workout DVD, streamed a 20-minute HIIT session; they both failed. That pile of metallic donuts lying beside a stainless-steel beheaded candy-cane; even that disjointed assembly failed.

But they didn’t. You just didn’t understand what it was to step into that group fitness class; you never expected the flock of eyes swooping down upon you. When you walked into that gym and expected to stroll up to the treadmill; that synthetic glamourous jog down a sun-kissed boulevard wasn’t meant to feel as though you were having an asthma attack on stage at the Apollo. And by God’s imaginary muscles of indifference; you never imagined how tender all those parts would be in the following days. This is reality colliding with ill-informed aspirations. This is the house of rice crackers falling down around you as you suddenly realise that nothing in life is easy. It is the grim reckoning that weighs on your soul; a 100-kilo masochistic cupcake doing squats on your chest. If you want to visualise it as I do (and I really do see this in my mind), the sweet, bakery creation has a leering grin and for some inexplicable reason is wearing pink Reeboks. Yup, fitness isn’t fun. It’s insidious.


Yeah, like a crap, pop-genre rap video, there’s always a but(t). And of course, if you’re familiar with Sir Mixalot… I’ll tell you what, Google that name to get the punchline. Though, in all honesty, I’m technically indifferent to the scale of glutes; the preceding sentence was low-brow humour. Anyway, onwards to the but (giggles).

The point is, of course it’s difficult to achieve something. If things were easy to accomplish there would be nothing to strive for; nothing to elicit the greatest human state-of-being—fulfilment. To succeed at something requires sacrifice of various forms; whether that is physical effort, financial cost, or emotional bankruptcy. To be better means to be worse off; at least for a while. The path to your goals and ambitions is a dark and treacherous highway. Along that slick and bleak road, there is a hooded figure waiting at every twist and turn. Is it the cosmic balance, the hand of fate? Perhaps it is neither. Perhaps the only shadowy nemesis along that seemingly infinite route is your own self-doubt. And it is true to say, in my 27-years of experience on the gym floor, the most ruthless assassin of dreams is the dreamer themselves. The last lesson to learn; the only thing you need to know to make a valiant effort to succeed is this—you only have to overcome yourself. You are the enemy. You are also your own shining knight. Battle yourself, and whether you fight your own demons, or wrestle with self-doubt or loathing; you are the driver on that highway of dreams.

And that is why I am saying goodbye. I’m on that highway right now. Hell, I’ve even pulled over and got out the damn car. I want to walk (I suppose, for me, it is more accurate to say, limp) the rest of the way. My dream? I’d love for you to see it. And you can; if you come with me.

So, to those who actually follow me that aren’t bots, or random fitness dudes trying to sell stuff, come, hold my hand and see where this goes. In the years to come it’ll all be worthwhile when I write my satirical fitness novel. I’ll do it for you. I’ll do it for me. In the meantime, you can follow me to a place where fantasy rules and fitness can take a long-deserved hike.

I have become James D McEwan; come see the magic.

The Best Exercise in the World is…

What? You really think I’ll start the article with the answer? That’s not a very good strategy for writing. It would be the physiological equivalent of a traditional ‘Whodunnit’ when the butler pounces from the pantry and says, ‘It was me!’. You’d not be inclined to watch the rest, would you? A Scooby-Doo cartoon with old man Rivers throwing himself in front of the Mystery Machine with a sandwich board declaring his guilt. That’d be a grim cartoon; I’d probably watch it. Damn hippy teenagers and a metaphor for exuberant LSD use. You can’t disagree, Scooby-Doo is so 60’s you can practically get high just watching it. ‘Zowie’, ‘yoinks’ and whatnot.

And don’t jump to the end of the post either. You’ll not find it there. I’m going to bury it in some inexplicable paragraph. Make it so fleeting you’ll be genuinely disappointed at the mediocrity of the answer. But hopefully the journey to the truth will at least offer some entertainment.

Exercise sucks. I’ve said this before. You probably question why I work in the industry I appear to loathe. I do too. But I’m here, so let’s get on with it. Exercise is a thing best described as the means to an end. Unfortunately, for most, that end never arrives. You perish on the path of exercise fulfilment; dashed upon the rocks of rowing tedium or terminated by cycling catatonia. Exercise is boring. Consider the things in life that make you laugh and smile. A child who’s dropped their ice-cream, a cat with a lamp-shade collar stuck in a fence, a politician stuck on a zip-wire waving a union jack. That last one actually happened. Funny stuff.

Activities which are fun have one common theme—an instant reward. We eat ice-cream and chocolate cake because the taste tickles our pleasure centres. Foods with a 50/50 mix of fats and sugar send most humans into delirium (ice-cream being one such thing, accompanied by cheesecake, etc). Games that we play, competitive or otherwise, are intrinsically rewarding due to baked in evolutionary survival tactics. Physical games that require actual cardiovascular effort help to tune our bodies and increase our fitness. Technically, that in itself is a reward but more than that, the human interaction of game-play enhances social skills and, to a degree, social belonging. A game becomes fun not because of the effort involved but for the other rewards it delivers.

This is why exercise fails at being fun for most people. Granted, there are those who enjoy the repetitive nature of solitary exercise. Science would be diplomatic and say something nice. But I’m not a scientist. I am, however, a cynic, and that empowers me to be blunt. Finding pleasure in the individual pursuit of fitness is, in itself, bonkers. That’s right—bonkers. From a biological perspective, it is sheer nuttery to enjoy battering one’s body into submission. Take the marathon runner. Of note, I have nothing against those who choose to run 26 miles. Remember, this post is pure cynicism and tongue-in-cheek wickedness. You run marathons? I don’t care—either way. Running marathons is a first world excess. It used to mean something; namely, a message that the Persians were coming. Now it’s all about specialist footwear or people dressed as dinosaurs collapsing with heat exhaustion.

A marathon reduces most to rubble. You see the victims cross the line on legs not fit for purpose. Wobbly pins I’d not trust in a bowling alley. Imagine that endurance sapping feat. Take a bow, have a round of applause. Now, try running away from that bloody lion I just freed from the zoo. What’s that? Your legs are a little bit useless? Quick, here comes Tiddles, and she’s not fussed that you’re wrapped in shiny foil. To her, you’re a human Tunnock’s Tea Cake. Nom, nom, nom.

A Tunnocks Tea Cake -A very Scottish cake/biscuit thing

I’ve not lost my mind. My point is, a marathon renders the human specimen weak and vulnerable. And for what reward? One week of DOMS? A buggered back and extensive physiotherapy fees? You can see it now, can’t you? I’m right. A marathon is not fun. It’s downright dangerous. Consider also that they often occur in metropolitan cities and most of these do in fact have zoos… I’m savvy that way. Won’t catch me doing a marathon. But then, I also use a leg brace. That would likely confuse the poor lion; under my foil wrapper I’ve got proper metal parts. Nom, nom, broken incisor.

I’ve established why exercise isn’t fun. And it’s precisely why most fail to adhere to it. So, what does work? The penny should have dropped by now; you should see where I’m going with this. If you can’t, you ought to go read another blog. One about those hollow mannequins called celebrities or conspiracy theories suggesting Ireland is actually a prehistoric, fossilised Koala. It so is by the way.

Now you’ll never see it any other way – The celtic mega-Koala

If we remove the curveball of mentalists who enjoy solitary exercise, there is one stand out activity that is sure to work. Or, to better phrase it: one condition of said exercise. It has to be enjoyable. Fun is the absolute key to maintaining an ‘exercise’ habit. Performing a physical chore that gives no ‘instant’ reward is a very disappointing endeavour to undertake. Fun creates a reward for the activity and replaces the apparent lack of feedback that our biology requires. Group fitness is often the key to exercise longevity. Participating in a communal class with an energetic and motivating coach can make all the difference. Of course, there are downsides. Cliques, body-image issues and an onslaught of mirrors that allow you to see every angle of your unsavoury backend can be a spoiler for some. But, by and large, GFX (as we abbreviate ‘group fitness’ to appear cool and trendy) is a winner for many.

But what if I hate people? Don’t worry, friend, I’m with you. Let’s celebrate hostility to humanity by drinking—just not together. If you prefer solitary exercise, you’re SOL* for standard narratives for fun. That leaves a huge array of personal activity. Outdoor cycling (I suppose it’s called…cycling) will get you into nature. Or under a bus. Rock-climbing or the inferior pursuit of finding a rock-wall to climb upon (called ‘hillwalking’) are excellent for raising mood and self-regard. Walking amongst nature—a good old trek through forest and glade—can lift both spirit and heart-rate. Just be vigilant for mammals with sharp teeth and claws if you’re lucky enough to live on a continent with dangerous indigenous fauna.

If you must insist on doing gym-work, you know, stuck in an iron cavern of clanking machinery where nuisance-mongers wear colourful battle Lycra and unnecessarily insist on clapping chalk into the air, there are some key elements to note. First, and most important, understand why you’re there. The gym will one day reward you. But first it must humiliate you and poke fun at your body. If you can scramble past the initial indignity of it all, the prize will come. Set your goal: weight loss, muscle gain, do a single chin-up, run a mile, yadda, yadda, yadda. Goals are important. Grab one and note it down. Stick it on your fridge. Glare at it with prejudice on a Sunday morning. But know it. Feel thy goal.

Second, rip out the nonsense. Talk to a gym coach and ask how you can most quickly and effectively achieve your goal. If the coach is overly muscled or shredded like pulled-pork, walk away. Fitness enthusiasts don’t understand that exercise sucks. They imagine you’ll love puking up after your 50th burpee. Find the coach with the grumpiest scowl; they know the truth, it’s why they’re so unhappy. Yes, I’m talking about me. I am the truth.

Grumpy coach will tell you how to make your work-out ‘most bearable’. Not fun. Most bearable. If you can find that coach, you’re set—they will nurture your attitude and make you the gym equivalent of a cockroach. That’s a good thing. You’ll persist through thick and thin (literally) and people won’t bother you. When Cindy Squat has long since vanished after her Instagram friends abandoned her over that ‘fat-shaming’ post, you’ll still be doing your 30-minute efficiency work-out. People will nod in your general direction. You’ll hear whispers of legend. Grumpy coach’s no-nonsense routine is still working. Why? Because you told them what you didn’t like and they listened. They allowed you a modicum of ‘fun’. And that’s the key to success. Whatever you do—you have to find the fun, sometimes in the smallest things. Print a tee-shirt with ‘I’m Grumpy Because I’m Here’ on the front and laugh quietly at the enthusiasts. They won’t understand but they’re abnormal. You can hold your head high and almost enjoy yourself. You conquered the gym your way. Now who’s laughing?

SOL* – Google it. If you find a sweary word, that’s it.