Keeping it simple

The big deal that I am - don't let the one to five reader comments per blog post deceive you - companies, p.r. firms and various hangers-on often solicit me to promote their products and ideas.

They assume I am one of those enthusiastic exercisers who enjoys brisk walks at dawn, liberally uses words like "carbs" and "lactic acid," and will try any kind of workout - as if I would travel across town to learn a new sit-up technique from a Tibetan master or start a running club that grows its own food in a backyard compost heap.

The problem is, I don't love exercise. I don't crave it. I don't and will not seek it in dark alleys, my kitchen or misty, chant-filled "studios."

All I want is to stick with a simple program that does not take up too much of my time, and see results.

One pitch featured a workout that includes "high and low impact aerobics" and "indigenous" Caribbean and African dances to Soca, Zouk and other kinds of music. Sounds like I would need an anthropology degree just to break a sweat.

Another advertised a sort of super exercise bike that also offers a brain-training program to help increase memory and other mental powers. I don't think this is for me. Generally speaking, I cannot multitask. I hunt and peck on the keyboard. I laugh and cry at commercials on TV. My IQ cannot be too high. This exercise seems fit for a higher level of human - the kind that is not typically found working at a newspaper.

And then there was the exercise pundit's suggestions for getting fit in a tanking economy. Turn your home into a gym, it said, and use soup cans and water bottles for weights. Perfect, until my neighbour sees me through the window pumping cans of chicken noodle, thinks I am preparing for the End Times, calls the cops, and I am tasered into a coma.

I think I will keep going to the gym.

7 gym sins

After nearly two months of working out and observing my fellow exercisers, here is my list of top gym sins:

1) Squeaky sneakers. Doing four sets of 15 pushes, pulls or curls is monotonous work. It takes concentration and dedication to make it through that last 15. Your cheap, shrieking shoes disrupt my rhythm, and because I am OCD and need to do each set of 15 in a specific, fluid way, I have to reset to zero and begin again. And I blame your shoes.

2) Faintly singing along with your iPod music while jogging on the treadmill. Maybe you think the person labouring next to you will be impressed that you can sing and jog at the same time, or will dig your music choice. But let me assure you that it is breathy, often offkey and supremely uninteresting. (Turns out this annoying habit is a common gym sin.)

 

3) Excessive grunting. I know that earlier in this blog I made fun of a gym rat who grunts. It turns out I grunt a little, too, but only when I am in pain, at my limit and the muscles I am working feel like Jell-O shot through with Novocain. But grunting that trails off into a feminine sigh is indulgent and silly.

4) Cell phones on the treadmill. There's this dork who keeps his BlackBerry in the pocket of his retro three-stripe jogging pants. I think he wears them in an effort to appear street credible. But his Yorkville haircut, sheared at varying lengths near the top and mussed just so, says he is anything but. What could be so important that he can't wait until after his 20-minute jog? I don't know because I crank up my iPod when his phone rings.

5) The sweat-and-flee. Gym etiquette says that after using and sweating all over a machine you should wipe it down with your towel. But some exercisers leave the seat wet. It makes me gag. For such a situation, the gym provides a few communal towels, along with a pee-coloured solution in a spray bottle so you can sanitize the machine. But I don't go near the gym rags because they are nothing more than sopping clumps of cotton, mystery cleaner and the sweat of 20 other people.

 

6) The locker room poop. There are some guys who save their most significant bowel movements for the locker room toilet. Maybe they're only three weeks into living with a new girlfriend or just married, and want to shield their significant others from their rotten insides. I get that. But find somewhere else, like a Starbucks. Letting that odor mingle with the sweet smell of sweat and the tangy scent of deodorant of 10 other guys is criminal. There's one offender in particular I am thinking of, but as he is 6'4", generously tattooed and could eat a tree I wouldn't dare confront him.

7) The hypocrite. I sweat and flee. I have squeaky shoes. I don't actually sing along with my iPod music but airily mouth the words, which is just as bad.

Almost on my own

I have one training session left.

Then the, ahem, training wheels come off.

And I am worried.

Will I be able to maintain my regular schedule?

I went to meet Joe every Monday and Wednesday because I paid in advance and could not be wasteful. And because I needed the crutch of an experienced, non-judgmental gym professional to guide me through the awkward early phases of gym life. Perhaps most importantly, because until I began this blog my idea of a total workout was a grunt-filled, spastic set of pushups.

Instead of being left to wander tentatively about the gym and fumble with weight machines, Joe was always there once I walked in the front door, to greet me and guide me through my regimen. Saved me a lot of embarrassment.

Now I know enough to not look and act like a total dork. I can even jog on a treadmill - if you read this blog early on you would know that is a real achievement.

But I worry that my motivation to keep on the path will not be as strong as was my will to quit smoking.

I knew that if I failed to kick cigarettes I was only hastening my death.

What's the harm if I miss a workout here, another workout there?

I doubt 60 less hacksquats a week will leave a spot on my lung.

Marking the day

I spent Saturday running around Clarence, N.Y., trying to get a glimpse of the charred remains of Flight 3407. And when I wasn't doing that, I was calling victims' families for comment while sitting in my car, surrounded by Dunkin' Donuts cups and my own B.O.

Each time I dialed a number, I felt like a vulture and craved a cigarette.

And then it hit me:

Saturday marked a full year since I quit smoking.

I did it, in large part, by blogging about the effort, which began Feb. 14, 2008 - a date I had engraved on an iPod I bought at the time.

For a moment on Saturday, I was proud. But then I started thinking of the cost of the achievement.

I am definitely moodier and angrier, quicker to snap at silly provocations.

Quitting also left me with a galloping appetite for cheese, beer, McDonald's and other foods that expanded my waistline, softened my jawline, and forced me to exercise or lose self-respect.

But surely there are some benefits I am not considering. So I re-visited the the Canadian Cancer Society's quit calculator. It said that based on how much I smoked a day, I should have saved $2,464, or enough to buy a handheld video camera.

Funny, I don't have an extra $2,464. Mainly that's because I had to shell out $1,600 to fix a gash I put in the bumper of my car. It happened a couple months ago. I was having a bad day and I was not paying attention and I backed into a parked car. Had I been smoking, such inattention never would have happened.

Next, I found a website that said a year without cigarettes has cut my "excess risk of coronary heart disease" in half.

That seemed impressive, at first. Then I read it again. My "excess risk" is cut in half? What the hell does that even mean?

So that's it? A little spending money that will just go to pay off my credit card debt, and a lower "excess risk" of having a heart attack?

Someone, please, stop me. From being so excited.

Locker room encounter

In a corner of the locker room, facing the wall to avoid any eye contact and hide my patchwork chest hair, I hurried out of my shirt and tie and into sweats.

It's a ritual I have squeezed into 30 seconds. As I have said before, I am uncomfortable in locker rooms, mainly because I have no interest in showing my body to other men and a sickening fear of seeing theirs.

I was pulling up my jogging pants, almost done, when I heard, from just over my right shoulder ...

"Seems busy tonight."

Oh God. I thought I could feel his breath.

I slowly turned my head, convinced I was about to clap eyes on a towering arrangement of muscles, nipples the size of Frisbees and a gorilla salad.

But instead I saw the friendly face of one of the gym regulars, a guy I've seen keep a mean pace on the elliptical. He was fully clothed, putting on his sneakers while sitting on a bench about five feet away. Just making small talk.

I breathed out, relieved.

I don't think I said anything in response, but he kept on talking.

As he chattered I relaxed.

He just finished work for the day. He's a truck driver, eighteen wheelers, he said cheerfully. Just put a sizable down-payment on a house in Oshawa, Loves the job and the freedom of the road. In fact, he just signed a new contract with a major grocery store chain. Three years job security.

Amazing turn of events. I was actually making my first gym acquaintance.

He said he works out to keep in shape so his body can withstand 20 more years driving. By the time he's 50, he figures to have enough money to retire.

"You work out in Toronto and live in Oshawa?" I asked.

"No. Four nights a week, I sleep in my truck, parked near here."

Wow. This guy works out regularly so he can withstand driving a truck the rest of his working life - a truck that he sleeps in. Made me feel ridiculous for all the complaining I've done about exercising. At least I have a queen-size bed to rest my little muscles at night.

I was about to ask another question, maybe even introduce myself, but another of the regulars, Bobby shortpants, laboured into the room, sweaty, and began to disrobe. Holding my breath and squinting, I hurried out.

Another milestone

I saw in the mirror last night my first new bulge since starting my exercise regimen more than a month ago.

To put what I saw in perspective, I went to my computer to find out where folks like me typically observe their first result. I googled "first bulge after workout," and this link was atop the list. Not what I was looking for. Unfortunately, what I have is not a hideous, coiling head vein.

And it's definitely bigger than what this guy bragged about on forum.bodybuilding.com.

I stepped on the scale and found this bulge has led to a five-pound weight gain since early January.

Back on the web, I found a message board where one reliable source - "Butterfly" - said muscle weighs three times as much as fat and someone just starting a workout regimen might experience weight gain. Another article confirmed it, and a third link featured an exerciser hyperventilating about a five-pound increase after daily workouts for a month. 

Earlier in the day, I told trainer Joe I suspected weight gain. He offered the same muscle theory, saying he noticed I had filled out in the shoulders. I was chuffed at the time, but now I know Joe was just trying to inflate my ego to the same size as my gut.

Looking in the mirror, I could plainly see this bulge wasn't muscle. This was my 2-to-3-beers-a-night habit settling down like a baby kangaroo.

I wanted to believe that my waist and upper abdominal area had toned down at a faster rate than what's between, giving only the illusion of a 50-year-old NASCAR fan.

But it is clear that what I got is a little potbelly.

So, starting tonight ... no, tomorrow night ... I will lay off the beer for a while.

A weekend off ... and then on

For the weekend I am in Middlebury, Vermont, where my wife works at a university.

That should have meant a few days away from the newsroom, traffic, crowded grocery stores and worrying about keeping up with my workout regimen.

I woke up on this Saturday morning looking forward to spending a good part of the day in the main street cafe, alongside the bedheaded, middle-aged men sipping coffee over the New York Times, and university students in turtlenecks reading pretentious novels. The way a coffeshop in a New England university town should be.

But while waiting for my medium americano, I watched as this fresh-faced, 80-pound twit in swishy outdoor winter clothes marched up to the girl behind the counter and said in high pitched voice, "Oh hi, um, do you have anything I could eat that would keep me energized for my cross-country ski today? You know, maybe something with protein in it?"

My hopes for enjoying an indulgent, sedentary day dimmed as guilt set in, and the 500,000-calorie, chocolate-chip scone I was nibbling started to taste like dirt. I only went to the gym twice this past week, I thought, as I watched the little skier walk out holding some kind of vegetable sandwich. Twice isn't enough.

And then I saw the ugly truth: I have a 9-hour drive home tomorrow. The gym closes at 6 pm on Sundays. That means I'm going to have to get up really early.

Protein powder a bank breaker

There is almost nothing so pathetic these days as a high-end mall.

 

The look of desperation on the proprietors' faces. Over-priced non-essentials, marked down and down again, filling every shelf and rack.

 

I had to visit one of these tombs earlier today because I needed a quick and easy way to improve my woeful eating habits.

 

I figured one of those fitness supplement stores would have a concoction that serves as a meal in a glass while also aiding my vain quest for muscle definition.

 

The only people moving about this mall were exercisers, not shoppers. Geriatrics shuffling and mother's pushing strollers.

 

I found the store, walked in and was almost blinded by the garish labels on thousands of items floor to ceiling, and then felt queasy when I started reading some of the price tags.

 

One product offered a complete body cleansing for nearly $40. I tried to imagine the dingus who would make such a product claim and then realized there are actually people out there who buy this stuff.

 

Omega 3 soft chews for $20. Yummy.

 

Salmon oil. Devil's claw. Calcium bone solution. Black powder. I half expected to find a room in back where all that ails me could be cured by a stringy old man with a degree in bloodletting.

 

A drink mix that is supposed to promote weight gain ... more than $80. And I was thinking, half that amount could buy you enough fast food and beer to go on a two-day weight-gain bender. Try it. I guarantee results.

 

And then I found what some readers have suggested I need. A high-protein, low-fat powder mix. I picked the raspberry flavor and read the instructions. Add one scoop to a glass of milk or water. Seems simple enough.

 

I went to the check-out counter and the guy asked me for $60. For powder.

 

But the container seemed large, and I figured it should last a while.

 

I returned to the newsroom and it occurred to me that I should open the jug and see if this powder company only half-fills like the potato chip people. I twisted and yanked, now convinced that I had paid a small fortune for a few measly scoops of pink powder. But I could not open the lid.

 

Do you think that I - the guy who is writing a blog about becoming a gym rat - had the humuility to ask a co-worker for help?

 

No way.

Bored

It's not new anymore.

I'm not saying the thrill is gone forever, but there is no denying that last night, during my workout with Joe the Trainer, I was bored.

Maybe it was simply a case of the Mondays.

But I think it's something more significant.

I think so because I kept looking at the clock.

Because each exercise felt like a chore, not a challenge.

Because I am so distracted that when I turned the corner into the change room and almost walked into a naked 50-something guy's wrinkly ass, I barely flinched.

It is time to shake it up.

The American Council on Exercise has a top 10 list of ways to spice up the workout, but it is as boring as Canadian television.

Here are some moves I am considering:

1 - Visit the gym more.

I am now going to the gym three times a week. Aside from stiffness that makes it difficult to sit on the toilet or put on a sweater, I do not see any results in the mirror. Call me impatient. Definitely call me vain. I want to see new muscles.

2 - Find some above-board supplement to help me build muscle.

Right now, I eat only when my nicotine-starved and coffee-addled brain decides I am hungry. That means I have no breakfast, something delightfully inadequate for lunch like a Snickers and then one of those overpriced energy bars before heading to the gym. Then for dinner, I eat assorted crap. So my stomach isn't getting any flatter.

I visited some other blogs, looking for ideas and found Treadmill Follies, where the author, on Jan. 29, listed her diet for a day, including skim milk, walnuts and grilled chicken.

I only eat one kind of chicken. Crispy. And I am not about to radically change into some granola eater. That's for another blog, another time. So, the key is to find something I can easily add to my diet. I think I may visit one of those fitness nutrition stores later in the week and see what's what.

3 - Maybe try some other kind of exercise to mix up the routine.

I am still too gun-shy to re-visit the yoga studio (see first blog post). Meanwhile, colleagues and commenters have suggested various exercises, but none seem plausible. One reader pitched an exercise program for couples developed by a husband and wife, both personal trainers, that use's each other's body as resistance to get in shape and build "intimacy." But I doubt my profuse backsweat doubles as an aphrodisiac.

You have any suggestions?