Working out has been an on-again, off-again venture for me over
the years. Well, mostly off-again.
Working out has been an on-again, off-again venture for me over the years. Well, mostly off-again.
Between work and coaching and meetings and yard work and raising children and watching TV and playing adult sports, it’s been hard to carve out time to hit the gym.
I am one of those people who slows down their physical activity as the weather turns cold in November, then decides around Dec. 15 that as soon as holiday feasting is over, I’ll start working out again.
But then January comes, and it’s way too cold and/or rainy to put on shorts and a T-shirt and ride a stationary bike. Plus, I tell myself to wait until after the post-holiday rush of people to the gym before restarting my regimen.
February can be even colder, so I tell myself that I’ll start mid-month, as I turn a year older. But then baseball practice starts, and I convince myself that I’m getting enough exercise throwing pitches to 12-year-olds twice a week.
March arrives and I feel guilty that the year is one-third over and my wait on the weights is dragging on.
April and May hit and I start breaking out the shorts and T-shirts, exposing what my lack of effort in the gym has produced.
Today is June 1 – that sounds like summer to me, even if it’s not official yet. Just less than a month ago, I decided that I needed to shelve my excuses, fight through the urge for procrastination, and go sign up to work out.
Luckily, there is a gym just two blocks from my house. It’s close enough to ride my bike to, or to drive there by car in about one minute. No more excuses, I have promised myself this time around.
The first couple days and weeks of working out can be intimidating. Walking into a sea of machines and barbells and elliptical machines and treadmills can leave you wondering where to begin.
I metaphorically and literally got back on the bike first, doing a 10-minute stretch on the stationary bicycle. Its computerized system asked me to enter my age (thanks for the reminder); select a time (one minute sounded good, but I chose 10); and had me pick a course (Fat Burn, Cardio, Hill, etc.)
That first day, I was looking for better options, like “Downhill,” “Mo-ped” and “Mild Soreness.”
I made it through that first ride, proud of myself that I did it and that I could still walk without the gait of a bowlegged cowboy.
Then it was on to the bench press machine. No free weights for me on Day 1, Week 1, or Month 1, for that matter. I need the security of a mechanical spotter so I don’t end up dropping a bar on my neck and have to flail like a fish out of water until a gym employee comes to my rescue.
I had used this type of machine before, so I selected the weight I recalled benching the last time I was a gym regular. That was not a good decision. Three or four reps into my 10-rep set, I concluded that I had made a mistake.
As my face turned a shade of purple while I forced my way through the set, I told myself that doing six reps was a good start and I hoped that no one was watching as I regretted the overestimation of my strength.
The first couple days after working out are probably similar to recovery from a car wreck. Muscles that you didn’t realize you had or were working out suddenly hurt.
“I don’t recall lifting anything with my neck. Wow, I must have stomach muscles somewhere in there, because they hurt. Why can’t I bend my arms to button my shirt?”
The key, most fitness experts like me will tell you, is to stick with it. Battle through those first few uninspiring days of pain and embarrassment, and soon you’ll start feeling like you actually belong in the gym.
With Month 1 over with, I am proud to say that I force myself to hit the gym at least four times a week now. I probably won’t be able to enter the Mr. California competition this year, and I’m not about to work out in a tank top, but I feel better and I’m noticing gradual improvements each week.
I can button my shirts with no pain and that computerized stationary bike no longer suggests that I use training wheels.
