Treadmill milestone

I am proud to announce I jogged 3 km on the treadmill.

 

Let's not fuss about how fast the tread was moving. It doesn't matter that what I call "jogging" probably rates as fast walking for many.

 

That I could do an exercise continuously for more than five minutes felt like an accomplishment.

 

I knew that in the early stages of my attempt to get fit - after years of inactivity, smoking and watching Spike TV - muscle memory would be slow to return. Nothing would feel natural for some time. So 3 km without breaking stride was surprising.

 

I've noticed that running on the machine seems easier on my body than when I used to run around town years ago.

 

(Turns out there is a whole field of study devoted to measuring the merits of treadmills. One article I read says that a study in a medical journal revealed no significant difference between running on city streets versus running on the spot.)

 

I noticed something else - something truly astonishing - during my milestone run.

 

There was this muscly guy on the treadmill beside me, his hair mussed just so, a colour-coordinated orange and white ensemble of workout clothes, his T-shirt short-sleeves rolled up to a point on his triceps he probably decided on after hours of mirror time at home ... this mouth-breather actually answered his cell phone while running on the treadmill.

 

I tried to glower at him but as I can only run on the treadmill while staring at my feet, I faltered and almost fell.

 

I could not pick up what he was saying because I was at 2.5 km and my heart was about to pop out of my ears.

 

As he seemed to be running at twice my speed without sweating or moving his arms, it was easily my lowest moment since joining the gym.

 

I pushed through to 3 km.

 

Took me 24 minutes.

 

You can do the math.

 

But slow as it was, the jog had me recalling that post from Grant, the one who told me that training to run a 5K road race by this summer would be "no trouble." At the time I told him he was nuts. I still have no interest in running a road race. But 5 km now seems possible. I suppose I should do a little pre-planning, though, as I would probably need to book off a treadmill at the gym for an hour to accomplish the feat.

The playlist

I am starting to exercise some nights without Joe the trainer, and that means no one to banter with. No easy distraction from the grim task at hand.

That's 70 minutes to kill and nothing to listen to but the gym's tinny techno occasionally interrupted by the staccato grunting and man shrieks of various muscleheads. I would rather listen to Nancy Grace interview a stuttering bailiff.

I have one of those little iPod shuffles, inscribed with the date I quit smoking - Feb. 14, 2008. I bought it thinking I was going to put it to use right away jogging around my neighbourhood. Instead I ate starch.

Time to put it to use.

This past weekend, I spent more hours than I care to admit uploading music from my CDs, buying a few songs from iTunes that I craved, and making a playlist.

There was a time many years ago when I jogged regularly, with aid of a soundtrack. So I know the art is not to simply throw together a mix of your favourite songs but to know what will sound right, what will push you when the cramps start and your mouth starts feeling like a cement mixer.

Each song does not have to be fast and heavy, though in the past I have relied on the Foo Fighters or Rage Against The Machine for running music.

I also need songs that build - none better than Jeff Buckley's "Lover, You Should Have Come Over." As the music crescendoes, so does my effort.

Music that sounds like a chugging train is good, too - like North Mississippi Allstars "51 Phantom." Such songs will push me to start the next exercise.

And I also need songs that start out dissonant and heavy on the minor keys but ultimately settle into a catchy refrain, like Radiohead's "Morning Bell." Those sweet sounds are especially welcome while in physical distress.

The key is to get a good mix of all these types.

So here is the playlist I came up with, designed to get me through the weights and treadmill.

1 Fat Bottomed Girls - Queen

Doubt the gym would keep many female members if they pumped this out of the main speakers.

2 Louisiana Fog - Charlie Musselwhite

"Help me, please help me. Oh help me, please God," this bluesman sings, as if the song was written for me. But a good, driving tempo.

3 Rock and Roll Band - Boston

An energizing sound, especially about two-thirds of the way through when the lead singer starts wailing high notes like Frankie Valli on steroids.

4 Locked in the Trunk of a Car - Tragically Hip

Sounds like controlled rage and gritted teeth.

5 Morning Bell - Radiohead

6 Simple Man - Lynyrd Skynyrd

The simple man singing this song doesn't sound like the type to quit a basic, 70-minute workout routine.

7 Viva La Vida - Coldplay

What can I say? I like the song.

8 Streets of Philadelphia - Bruce Springsteen

9 Walk on the Wild Side - Lou Reed

I challenge you to come up with another workout song that features a standup bass and the words "sugar plum fairy."

10 Lover, You Should Have Come Over - Jeff Buckley

11 51 Phantom - North Mississippi Allstars

12 Whipping Post - Allman Brothers

I figure that by this track, about 45 minutes into the playlist, I will feel as tore down.

13 Come Running - Van Morrison

Time for the treadmill.

14 Grown So Ugly - The Black Keys

At this painful point in the workout, why not embrace what I have become.

15 Gentle Thoughts - Herbie Hancock

Now's the time to try to steady the breathing and find a good stride on the treadmill, and this song is somehow both calming and a headbopper.

Going solo

I need to go to the gym today like I need a peanut butter and salmonella sandwich.

It's been three days since my last visit and I'm still not right.

On Wednesday trainer Joe had me do hack squats. My quads are still so sore that I don't sit on the toilet so much as fall on it.

Tell me, why isn't going to the gym twice a week enough?

Joe says three, four times, but I don't know.

Make friends with the pain, some of you platudinous muscleheads have told me. Some colleagues see me limp and wince, and try to explain that I am probably feeling some kind of "lactic acid buildup." Isn't that what those guys in China were sentenced to death for last week?

I have heard about hitting a willpower wall three months into a new year's resolution workout regimen. But three weeks? 

And why would I dream of going outside? It is inhumanly cold. I made the mistake of going out once already; it was so breathtakingly frigid this morning that the windows of my favourite coffee shop were opaque with condensation.

But what else am I going to do? There's nothing on TV but CNN's millionth update on the fate of Obama's BlackBerry. The house is empty as my wife is out of the country for work.

And that piece of paper that Joe gave me, folded into a little square, sits on the window sill in the front hall. Niggling me. It is a guide to my first workout alone - what machines to use, how much weight to push and pull.

I had better get to it or else I will spend the rest of the weekend feeling guilty.

The cast

When I show up to do whatever trainer Joe tells me - usually around 5 pm Monday and Wednesday - there seems to be a regular group of exercisers.

About 10 people of varying age, physique and ability.

Their consistency is comforting. The familiar faces are helping me feel more at home. I have not said a word to any of them. What am I going to say: "Good workout, eh?" Or how about: "Can you feel this lump and tell me if it's normal?" I'll think of a good icebreaker soon.

So I don't know their names. But I will try to introduce a few of them to you so you can better picture the scene.

There's Bobby shortpants. He is about 50, rotund, wears a grey T-shirt and grey shorts pulled well above the waist. Completing the unfortunate ensemble is dark grey socks soaring high above the ankle. I like him because being near him boosts my confidence.

There's the thirtysomething guy whose shoulders are so wide and waist so thin he looks as if he has wings. He is easily the biggest guy in the gym. I get the sense the trainers are jealous. But that's not enough for Wingman. While he pumps and pulls, jesus does he grunt and groan. It's almost pornographic. His guttural, sometimes obscene noises shatter my concentration and make me lose count while I am doing my measly reps. But his self-love serves as a reminder to keep my own vanity in check.

In the room of cardio equipment, there's a wraith of a woman, about 25 years old, always on the same step machine. She stands about 5'8" but cannot weigh more than 80 pounds. She is there when I arrive and still doing the same bloody exercise at the same pace when I Ieave more than an hour later. She doesn't sweat. Instead her face turns this horrible crimson. I want to walk up to her and yell at her to stop. But her drive is inspiring.

For a moment today I thought I noticed a newcomer among the regulars.

In the mirror I spotted this guy about my age, his lips curled in anguish and a forehead vein bulging.

And then with great disappointment, I realized that the man I was looking at, this person who looked on the cusp of an involuntary bowel movement, was me.

The image didn't compute right away because my eyes were rheumy and throat closed with the effort needed to finish a set of hack squats. I am confident a thorough Internet search will find hack squats were invented during the Inquisition.

This insidious exercise - Joe had me do it for the first time today - was the toughest yet.

I had done three sets of 15 hack squats and was halfway through my fourth and final set when I started to grunt like Wingman.

In a couple days I will be attempting an hour workout for the first time without trainer Joe. Though he has written out a skeleton plan, no doubt I will need help remembering which machine does what. Likely, I will have to ask someone nearby for help.

Any ideas for a good icebreaker?

Everyone's got an opinion

One exercise evangelical said I should swim because: "the only true test of fitness is triathlon, where some level of swim competence is a must."

Um, you weren't there when I last swam. It was a hot summer day in Chicago. I was lakeside and jumped from the seawall into the water. The lifeguard was too far away to see that I was a moron who needed help. I badly misjudged the waves. They washed over me, and instead of riding with them, instead of treading water, I panicked and starting swallowing the swill of Lake Michigan. Somehow I made it back to the seawall, where I shredded my feet trying to get a grip on the its rusty bolts.

I do not think I am triathlon material. Let's see if I can first master running on a treadmill.

It is flattering that you take precious minutes out of your day to read this blog and post comments and suggestions. Many have been encouraging and some helpful.

Some of you have tried to sell me something, like "DYLG Consultants" pleading with me in a post to buy an "11 day cleanse" product. I only quit smoking 11 months ago, so it would probably take a fire hose spewing isopropyl down my throat to make my insides look like they belong to a healthy 31-year-old. Let's worry about my colon in a future blog.

I fear "Jody" has overestimated my courage. She recommended martial arts, or what she called MMA. I googled it and found MMA described as a "full contact combat sport" and then found a site advertising an upcoming fight between Fedor Emelianenko and Andrei Arlovski. Let me remind you Jody ... I am a weakling.

"Grant" suggested I could train myself to run a 5K or 10K road race this summer "with little to no trouble." If by no trouble you mean steroids, blood doping and three times more free time than I have, then Grant, I bet you're right.

"Cris" told me to eat six times a day to really "rev up that metabolism." Right now, I eat once, sometimes twice a day. Six seems out of reach, and a sure way to keep me on the toilet instead of at the gym.

One of my favourite posts may be from "Brandon," who seems to understand my helplessness. After I whined in the blog about my unbalanced diet and penchant for McDonald's, he wrote: "All it takes is one delicious, well-balanced meal to turn that corner. I hate to sound sexist, but could help with your diet be your wife's contribution to your fitness goals?"

My wife Brooke did not find this post as funny as I did.

My place in the pecking order

I have these aggression fantasies.

They are all based on the assumption that when trouble comes I instinctively know what to do. Like Jason Bourne or Action Jackson.

I imagine how, with the grace and strength of a panther, I efficiently lay waste to the source of my frustration.

In one such reverie, I get into an argument with an editor. He becomes increasingly agitated and raises his voice. Then I calmly say something unassailable, the point is won and I turn to walk away. The editor gets frisky and pulls at my shoulder, his teeth bared in hysterical anger.

I turn toward him, duck a clumsy punch and throw a quick fist. I see my fist buried in his mouth, then blood on his chin and tears welling in his eyes. The whole newsroom watching how I brutally dominated.

I see myself walking down a dark, empty street, and a crazed addict staggers into view with malice on his mind. He lunges. Hands in my pockets, I slam my forehead into his face. I knee him in the midsection and then slap him on the cheek. Because nothing seems more degrading than open-hand slapping a man. It implies he could be hurt by it. Then I scamper off into the night.

Sure, these are fantasies. But I used to think: Why not?  I mean, I have never really been in a fight, but how hard could it be? Just be decisive, bold and make sure to hit your target on the first try.

But now I know better. Working out in a gym has sobered the imagination.

On Wednesday, my trainer Joe had me work biceps and shoulders for an hour. As he led me around the weight room, I often had to wait for a machine as another gym member finished a set. Joe would then walk up, take the pin out of the stack of weights and cut the load by more than half. He set one of the resistance machines at zero weight. Joe generously told me it was so that I could pull on the bar, "just to get a feel for the machine."

After I pulled on the bar 40 times, my shoulders burning and lame from the effort, I surveyed the room. At machines all around, men and women pushed and pulled serious weight with coordination and focus. They hefted and grunted but never lost control. I realized I am not one of these people. Every one of them would destroy me in a physical confrontation.

I later saw one leave the gym in a TTC uniform. My mind reeled with the implications. I scanned the room again and convinced myself that the woman doing leg curls is a florist and the man working his lats a stamp collector.

I finished my session that day with 15 minutes walking on the treadmill. Joe has me walking because he does not think I am ready to jog on the machine without incident.

That night I had a different kind of vision as I wondered: If a great disaster struck - like a once-in-a-century storm or some huge industrial accident that threatened the whole city and deprived citizens of the basics - would I be a survivalist, a man who could make my way, forage for supplies, live off little for weeks and possibly lead other men?

And I decided that at the first sign of citywide trouble, I would be overwhelmed and eaten by the panicked 120-pound stay-at-home dad living next door.

Self-diagnosis on the web a mistake

Hours after my first full workout - hell, even the morning after - I was fine.

 

It was not until more than 24 hours after lifting and pulling tot-sized stacks of weights at my new gym that the aches and stiffness set in.

 

The underside of my upper arms, or triceps as you gym rats would call them, feel like they have been worked on by a cheese grater. My forearms and shoulders are sore. My calves feel ready to pop.

 

Maybe this is normal. Probably, right? I mean, I have spent the better part of the last seven years in a newsroom, hunched over a keyboard. My body was not prepared. The delayed reaction is worrisome. But all should be fine.

 

The problem is, I am now only a few hours away from my next session with Joe. If I can't put on my winter jacket without grimacing, how am I going to last five minutes with my trainer? And why is the discomfort only increasing?

 

So I go online, hoping to find some tips. Maybe there's some cure-all energy drink perfect for such an occasion, or a particular way to stretch out the stiffness. Or maybe it's just that I want to find other novices who went through the same discomfort after their first workout.

 

I google "tricep pain after first workout" and quickly find this post on a message board:

 

A guy anxious about his worsening upper arm pain is asking the English-speaking world if his condition is normal.

Seems a little desperate, I think, and maybe he should see a doctor.

 

Before he gets an answer, the guy follows up with more on his condition:

 

"Just an update: the pain seems to be ... closer to the elbow and there is a small bulge (not the tricep) above the elbow."

 

Jesus. A freaking tumor after one workout. I grab my elbows, feeling for bumps. I read faster, my eyes scanning the screen for words like "ambulance" and "workout-induced cancer."

 

"Could it be a ligament strain?" the doomed exerciser asks. He is trying to sound cheerful but clearly this is a hail mary. I don't know how he even typed the message. "The pain has worsened and it hurts to extend or contract the arm."

 

Mother of God.

 

I scroll down the page.

 

Only two people responded to the SOS.

 

One of them says: "eat chicken and make friends with pain if you want to look good."

 

But nothing more from the man with the sore arm ...

Session 1

I spent my grocery budget for the week on one of those energy bars they sell in convenience stores. Chocolate Peanut Butter, it said on the package. Barium, was more like it. I tried to wash it down with Gatorade and headed to the gym.

Today was my first full session with trainer Joe.

I was nervous.  But I figured Joe wasn't going to let me start something that would require the Jaws of Life to end.

I went to the change room, stuffed a locker with my work clothes and escaped without showing or seeing any significant nudity. A good and nimble start.

Joe found me stretching and led me to a treadmill. Eight minutes walking, he instructed. I nailed it. A vast improvement from my fitness assessment last week.

Next he showed me a room full of weight machines, each one indecipherable from the next.

To me, it was a mess of black bars and pads and weights, all twisted together into angry shapes.

As I cycled through the room, Joe adjusted settings and demonstrated how to work each machine before urging me to imitate.

Which was very helpful. Left on my own, I would not have intuited where to place my limbs. I have never worked with weight machines before.

First I did leg presses, then some kind of leg curl, and then Joe had me work my upper body. At each machine, I would push or pull stacks of weights 15 times, rest 45 seconds and do the set of 15 three more times.

No major screw-ups. Nearly an hour had passed in a blink. But I was tiring.

Near the end of the last set of 15, while sitting on a bench pulling a weighted bar down to eye level, I thought my epiglottis was going to fly out my mouth. I was huffing and my shoulders burned. But I did it.

Why not a self-congratulatory beer or two tonight? I mean, it could have been a lot worse.

Then I looked at where Joe set the weight stack - only two holes from the top. I dared not look more closely for the actual weight total.

Already feeling dejected, I had to spend 15 minutes walking on the treadmill while women jogged on machines to my right and left.

 

The session done, I drove to McDonald's, bought a 6-piece and two bacon cheeseburgers, then headed home.

What's the problem? My dinner cost $7. Leave me alone.

I have been assessed, and it turns out I walk like a duck

Today I learned that a fitness assessment at a gym is nothing less than a brutally efficient way to shred a man's ego.

It only took 45 minutes. The coup de grace was when Joe the trainer told me to do chin-ups. I got my forehead above the bar but then started to shake violently. I dropped, satisfied there was no way I could do even one.

I could not have predicted a more disheartening end to the day when I went to the gym this morning, bought a membership and scheduled the assessment for the afternoon.

I walked in, was introduced to Joe, my assessor for the day, and pulled one sneaker out of my left jacket pocket and then the other from my right. Nice first impression, Dave-O. I think Joe was looking at me as if I were a puppy whose rear legs were just run over by a car.

We went upstairs to Joe's office and the easy job of laying bare all my physical deficiencies began.

The first thing I saw was a poster with two images - on the left a picture of Joe looking sturdy and muscular, and on the right another picture of Joe taken 12 weeks later, his muscles more defined and in his flexed arm a bulge the size of a grapefruit.

I slumped in my chair and drew in my thin arms, wishing I had worn a long sleeve. It would take me years to look like Joe in his before picture.

He asked that I take off my shoes and socks.

I realized I was wearing navy socks and groaned. It was tough work, but I managed to pick the dark lint from between my toes while Joe wasn't looking.

He told me to stand on what looked like a weight scale except that this thing had metal plates on it.

Joe took some notes from the information on the machine's display and told me what I already knew, that I weigh 175 pounds.

Then he said the machine could tell 34 of those pounds were fat. How in the hell I do not know. I wanted to look more closely at this machine from the future, half expecting the display to read something like: "Fat breakdown: Ass, 14 lbs. Gut 13 lbs. Neck 7 lbs. New record."

But Joe led me back downstairs to a treadmill. An amazing machine. It taught me within seconds that I do not know how to walk properly.

My feet kept straying to the sides. As I focused downward like a laser, willing myself not to become the first person in this gym to fall off a treadmill, I noticed I walk like a duck, toes pointed out, my shoulders dipping with each step.

Straightening the step felt unnatural. If I tried to look up at Joe while he was talking about the importance of a balanced diet, I teetered.

For 15 minutes I walked at the fastest speed I could manage and fell far short of the distance Joe witheringly described as "normal."

At Joe's command, the machine slowed, then stopped, but I felt as though I was still moving forward. 

Pathetic. A simple exercise machine made me feel as though I was levitating. I needed 30 seconds to pull it together.

Joe wrapped his tape measure around my arms, waist and neck, jotted down the numbers and then led me to the chin-up bar.

That done, my head hung low like a doomed farm animal, I was easy pickins for his pitch.

I start personal training sessions with Joe on Monday.

I'm getting there ...

I know I have made quite a to-do about starting to work out.

Get on with it already, right?

I will. Tomorrow.

Part of the blame goes to the unhappy marriage of my anemic checking account and my employer's recent move from weekly to biweekly pay. Payday is tomorrow, and I need to get paid before I can join a gym and hire a personal trainer on a short-term basis. For those that don't know, it's not cheap.

But the delay has allowed me to dwell on what I am about begin and I have to admit I feel nervous.

I did not even feel this anxious last February, on the eve of my first day without cigarettes.

Why am I starting to think it could have been easier to stop a bad habit than it will be to start a good one? Is that possible?

And as I sit here, gassy and cotton-mouthed after of another of my epic dinners - pita, hummus, medium cheddar and crackers, and several bottles of Beck's beer - I worry if I will have to change my diet to get the most out of my fitness plan.

And earlier today I started worrying about exactly what time of day I was planning on going to the gym to exercise. I first thought after work would be a good time but then realized everyone and their sweaty brother will be there comparing bulgy parts and pointing and laughing at the scrawny and fat new year's resolution newcomers.

It worried me enough that earlier today I went to my gym of choice, even though I haven't bought a membership yet, and asked a manager who was easily the size of The Rock about the best time slot for a vain, cowardly ninny like me.

About 8 pm, he said.

That means I will be giving up Family Guy and CSI re-runs.

But never mind all that.

I can do it. I just have to buy a membership, get my initial fitness "assessment" done, which I assume will be easy and harmless, and then onward.