Of the five of us, Mick was in the worst shape – bad knee, bad back, cholesterol levels so high that his doctor was amazed they actually drew blood and not butter from the vein. He regularly suffered from gout as a consequence of too much red wine, red meat and rich sauce, and he also had stressed out blood pressure levels.
He described himself as ‘a large man with big bones who carried his weight well and enjoyed a reasonably healthy lifestyle’.
His doctor described him as ‘a large man, bordering on obese who ate the wrong foods, did no exercise and had no medical reason still to be alive’.
Mick described his doctor as ‘a mildly obsessive medic who had no sense of humour and bad taste in ties’.
There are a lot of overweight Old Farts out there who are just like Mick. All of you have been ducking the issue for years. Mick knew that he was following a self-destructive lifestyle, but as long as no one had the proof to wave in his face, he could avoid doing anything about it. Typical bloody lawyer.
If you are a Mick type, you might want to try this pre-gym programme I set up to get him started. It’s simple.
That’s it. Try it for a week and see how you feel.
The concept of exercising on a regular and routine basis is something to which your mind and body must become accustomed. Believe me, going to a gym is essential for FOFs. If you don’t go to a gym, you will not do the exercise; it’s as simple as that.
For Mick, it was a foreign country. In fact, not doing any strenuous exercise had always been a source of pride for him. ‘Never saw the point in running around with a bunch of sweaty morons kicking a ball. I mean, what did that ball ever do to me?’ he’d ask with raised eyebrows. ‘A lot less than the sweaty morons, I can tell you.’ Following the strategy that attack is the best form of defence, he’d made fun of guys who went to gym for years, and that included me. ‘It takes as much brain power to lift weights as it takes muscle power to lift your intellect,’ he was fond of quoting whenever he saw me.
Now, the idea of actually having to go to a gym himself had him feeling like a bit of an old fraud. He was squirming and I was enjoying every moment of it. Adding to his squirminess was having no idea what to do at a gym, what to wear or how to behave, and all that machinery scared the hell out of him. His feelings on the matter had not changed with time.
‘Are you sure I couldn’t do this gym programme of yours at home?’ he queried. ‘I think I could.’
‘Right, because you did the pre-gym programme so well,’ I answered, grinning like my surgeon. ‘What was it you managed again? Oh yes, one walk, three push-ups and you drank two litres of coke in a week.’
‘Misunderstanding,’ he blustered. ‘I thought it was a weekly programme, not a daily one.’ I could not believe the audacity of the man. He looked me in the eye and lied like a politician.
‘Why don’t you want to go to a gym?’ I asked, hoping for an honest answer.
‘Went to a gym once,’ he told me. ‘Felt like a straight man going into a gay bar – out of place, out of touch and baffled by the whole concept.’ Still lying like a politician, I thought.
‘And the real reason is?’
Mick took a deep breath, ‘Okay, here’s the thing,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m a fat man in shorts and everyone is going to laugh at me.’
‘I promise you, no one is going to laugh. They may stare a bit, but after you’ve been there for a week you’ll be on a first name basis with half the gym. After a month you’ll be part of the furniture.’ God, it’s like talking to a child.
As I said, we never grow up, we just grow older.
***
To be fair, Mick’s feelings on the matter had not been helped by his beloved wife Sarah’s reaction to the whole gym and exercise thing. Apparently the idea of Mick in a gym trying to pick up weights made her laugh so hard she had actually wet herself. Trying for a Guinness Book of Records entry she had laughed non-stop for over 80 minutes, ending her record-breaking effort when her stomach muscles seized up.
Mick’s other concerns were, firstly, not having the time to spend hours training at the gym. Secondly, and I’d like to use his exact words here, he said, ‘I don’t want to end up looking like some overdeveloped, musclebound jock.’ It’s a testimony to our friendship that I did not try for the Guinness laughing record myself.
‘No problem there,’ I said, hoping we could achieve six sit-ups in a row by the end of the month.
To all you LOFs out there – LOF is an acronym for Lazy Old Fart – going into a gym and committing to a programme is the hardest part. This is the programme Mick finally agreed to: Gym on a Tuesday and a Thursday, and a walk on every other day.
‘Is that every other day as in even numbers …?’ he asked.
‘Oh, shut up,’ I snapped, ‘you know bloody well I mean a walk on every day you do not go to gym.’
‘Just checking,’ he said, as if butter would not melt in his mouth. ‘Wouldn’t want the kind of confusion we had with the pre-gym programme.’
Two days a week at gym, that’s it. Thirty-five minutes twice a week.
Do not think you are in competition with the steroid-using, musclebound, 26-year-old sitting on the bench next to you. Stick to your light weights and complete the reps (repetitions). The first aim is to build fitness and flexibility; muscle mass (strength) will follow in time.
Think you could manage that?
For all those Old Farts who will find filling in a training schedule confusing, here are two examples of my own, to show you how to use your week-by-week progress sheets. As you can see, they stipulate the exercise and record your progress. All you have to do is remember to take a pen to the gym and use the time it takes to write in the info as your rest period between exercises.
EXAMPLE 1
EXAMPLE 2
DAY 1: BICEP – SHOULDERS – BACK
You can download this body programme from our website here
DAY 2: TRICEPS – CHEST – LEGS
You can download this body programme from our website here
We will build up the abs routine and numbers over time.
Mick lifted the 20 kg barbell, breathing out in an exaggerated manner as he did so.
‘Very good,’ I said, as he began letting the bar down, breathing in. ‘Remember that letting the weight down is as important as picking it up. It works the muscles in a different way, so control the movement. Very good, Mick.’
He was turning purple. ‘Will you stop saying that,’ gasped Mick. ‘All I’m doing is moving a dead lump of metal up and down, breathing in and out at the same time. It’s not exactly rocket science.’
‘But you’ve achieved lift off and landing six times, and only complained twice, four to go. Come on.’
He gave me a look that would have made a jury shudder. ‘You really are enjoying this, aren’t you?’ he observed, giving the dead lump of metal lift off for the seventh time.
‘Absolutely,’ I said, ‘watching you do exercises is one of the highlights of my life, Mick.’ The irony was lost on Mick whose skin is thicker than your average hippo.
It was a long session as he became ever more ascorbic as the number of sets increased and his muscles began to fail. ‘Are you sure this is only 10 kg?’ he snapped at one point when his attempt at a bicep curl was accompanied by a teeth-bearing grimace that would have done a wolf proud. ‘It feels like at least twelve.’ As if he would know the difference. Please!
And so it went, with me showing him the exercises and making sure that his form was correct and him fighting the process the whole way. It is amazing how stupid a bright man can be when you take him out of his comfort zone. By midway through cable pull-downs, Mick lost the ability to count, ‘How many was that, ten?’ he queried.
‘Six,’ I answered. ‘Come on.’
‘Oh, bull,’ he said, shaking his head like a rebellious school boy. ‘Six?’
‘Uh-huh, six,’ I said inspecting a nail.
Mick was not happy. ‘There is no way I could feel this tired after six reps. My muscles are telling me they have done at least eight reps … can we agree on eight?’
‘There’s no haggling on reps in a gym, Mick,’ I said with a smile that was guaranteed to piss him off. ‘If you can’t do more than six, that’s fine you feeble Old Fart, but six is never going to be eight.’ It worked, he was pissed.
By shoulder press stage, breathing while lifting went out the window and his need for positive feedback had taken on child-like proportions. ‘Was that good, did I do it right?’ he’d ask after almost every rep hoping for a long conversation that would give him an excuse to rest.
Mick is an old friend, but if I hadn’t promised the others I’d do this I would have told him to shove it. There is a lot to be said for self motivation. By the end of the session he was not in good shape, and my sense of humour was returning. ‘What’s this exercise called again?’ he asked in a voice that was quavering in time to his shaking hand.
‘It’s called a Dead Lift,’ I answered, watching his double chin dance rather entertainingly. ‘Great for your back, also works legs and bum. One of the big six exercises in the gym.’
He managed another two lifts, then dropping the bar he said, ‘Good name, I think I’m about to have a heart attack.’ He didn’t. Not sure how I felt about that.
If you are of the Mick variety, your experience is probably going to be similar to this with all the same problems and feelings. Persevere, it gets better.