Survival of the fittest

STYLE, MARCH 2002

I BELIEVE IN KEEPING FIT. I do. But the difference between me and the gaggle of earnest citizens in tracksuit pants who go filing into aerobics sessions and spinning classes, or who shuffle through the streets in the early morning hours like a string of crumpled washing looking for a line, togged out in sweatbands and running shoes and the facial expressions of St Sebastian being pierced by arrows, is that I understand what being fit means. I have read my Darwin.

They survive best, Charles Darwin told us, who are fittest for their environment. He was a canny one, that Darwin. I have given the matter some thought, and for the life of me I cannot imagine the situation in which my urban environment will demand survival skills involving pedalling a stationary bicycle while a frightening-looking stranger blows a whistle at me. Ditto jogging. I can understand that, centuries ago, the ability to run from Durban to Pietermaritzburg could conceivably have given you the edge over your neighbour, who might have to walk from Durban to Pietermaritzburg, but frankly today I just don’t see that being the case. Even with the state of public transport nowadays, you can usually make some sort of plan involving wheels and an engine.

But I do not shirk my responsibilities. Every day I perform exercises to keep fit for my environment. Wrist rotations keep me limber both for handling a steering wheel and signing credit card slips; programmes of slow and regular breathing prepare me for standing in queues at the supermarket check-out. Ocular stamina training enables me to keep my eyes fixed on the numbers in a public elevator, without ever having to make eye-contact with strangers. I have learnt to drink hard liquor without falling to the ground and hurting myself.

Still, there are those that cling to their outmoded faith in physical tone and cardiovascular robustness. Take President Bush, for instance. No really, take him. In January the world sniggered to read of his brush with death. Apparently while seated on the sofa, watching football on television, the defender of the free world choked on a pretzel and pitched face-first on the floor. His personal physician later issued a statement blaming not the pretzel but “the president’s overly strenuous work-out regime”. Quite so. Bush may be well conditioned for plodding along a treadmill, but modern man is more likely to find himself sitting on a sofa watching a football match than he is to find himself plodding along a treadmill. For an urban survivalist such as myself that sofa would have offered no peril. And without bragging, I am fairly confident I would have known what to do with that pretzel.

At least the exercise industry in America recognises the need to diversify fitness training to accommodate the various challenges of the modern world. The Crunch gym chain has long offered aerobics classes in such specialised disciplines as Gospel Moves (should you find yourself in a Rhema church without a clear run for the exit), Recreational Hopscotch (should you be challenged to a duel by a pack of 12-year-old girls) and Circus Sports (should you, uh … oh, I don’t know). Their newest offering is a class in – I’m not making this up – Cardio Striptease.

The idea behind these exotica, I suppose, is to keep punters interested. The brochure for Cardio Striptease promises “an hour of erotic movement, culminating in a 25-minute stripathon”. Whether or not the spandex actually leaves the body I cannot ascertain, but consider if you dare the vision of a troop of bouncing soccer moms thrusting pelvises and tweaking imaginary nipple caps and twirling leg-warmers above their heads. Now consider the kind of paunchy male villain in shiny shorts queuing up to join the class. Oh, the humanity.

There are other new ideas in aerobics. Bhangra Dancing offers a fun-filled workout as you master the traditional dance of the Sikhs; Poledancing is Cardio Striptease with, well, a pole. In some gyms poles are provided. Others make poles available at discount prices. Perhaps most alarming is Cycle Karaoke, which is described as “singing while spinning”. I can see how such a class might be useful for eager young actors auditioning for Andrew Lloyd Webber’s new show, set against the timeless backdrop of the Tour de France, but for the rest of us it sounds like something very close to hell. (Mind you, so does Andrew Lloyd Webber’s new show, set against the timeless backdrop of the Tour de France.)

So keep on training, ye exercise fans, and I’ll keep practising how to sit on the couch and watch TV. If I should find myself having to strip all night to save my life, or dance to the death in a darkened Sikh alleyway, I may regret my decision. I’ll take my chances.