Fitness At 29...er, plus 23

*Updated from the archives*

At 4:45am on Sunday morning, a (non) milestone is reached. A simple 'tick' of the biological clock (which could easily be mistaken for joints cracking).

Eh.

As the title here implies, is fitness at 52 myth or mirth? For some, "fitness at 52" is a bit of both. For others...well, just look at Jack LaLanne, well into his 90s and still able to whip a good many of those half his age.

Being a couple years past the official "half-century" mark in the early hours of Sunday, January 25, I delve back into my own life style war over fitness, using my own personal experience as benchmark. Note that this is me talking about me, so any of y'all who choose to take some kind of silly, self-absorbed offense or infer something agin yourself herein can stuff your objections at the border of New Mexico (or wherever fits). That's, I say that's a little bit of non-apologetic "bite me" on the non-politically correct road to official curmudgeondom, in case anyone wuz wonderin' or missed it ;-)

A friend of mine -- a former boss, long retired -- had a slightly differing philosophy on exercise and fitness from my own. To him, the human heart had only so many beats in it, and it was silly to waste them on anything that didn't bring the same pleasure as an ice cream anything from Baskin-Robbins.

Granted, there's probably something to that. However, if I tried his philosophy -- and I did for a short time -- I'd need a hydraulic lifting system just to get out of bed, and an OSHA-mandated backup alarm to avoid bowling over kids and small-to-medium pets as I ponderously waddled from Point-A to Point-B.

So I still exercise, though not with the vigor of years past. And it shows, as my chins are starting to look like a phone directory in Little Chinatown. Try as I might, I just don't have the Jack LaLanne.exe in my program files.

But I still have a gym membership and force myself to use it periodically. Over the years, I've tried several different gyms and fitness formats, including a home regimen and the Baskin-Robbins option. Most have helped to some extent, but chronology, gravity, and double chocolate Rocky Road are tough things to overcome.

Some years ago, I was a member of the Holiday Health Clubs, in a northwest Denver 'burb. I went with a regularity that neared religious: three times a week minimum, in sickness or health, awake or asleep. Nothing kept me from my appointed workouts. Not only because these periods were a break from the toils of suburbia, or a poignant calm in the storm of Life; not only did I find the workout energizing, purifying and cleansing for mind and body.

The female scenery was THAT GOOD.

But to keep myself out of trouble, I exercised. I did many of the machines there, and usually managed to culminate a rigorous weights-and-aerobics routine with the customary dry heaves and muscle spasm, signifying that I was done for that session.

Even after I moved from that location to a more southwesterly 'burb, I continued to journey north, minutes and miles out of my way, to maintain the regimen.

The female scenery was THAT GOOD.

However, being a creature of convenience (aka, lazy), I eventually decided I need a more local facility. And I found one, a few blocks away. But the original thrill was gone. The motto of this new place was "get SERIOUS, train HARD, get BIG". Much of the clientele there took it as gospel. I quickly found myself -- 6'2", 215 lbs at the time -- to be a waif in a sea of muscle mass. I would have been undersized there in a Batman outfit. Or Abrams battle tank.

As for the 'scenery', it definitely wasn't Holiday. Gawking was not a wise option. When in proximity to the few females who patronized this facility, I exercised in self-defense. I'd long ago resolved never to date a woman who could body slam me. And here, the most petite specimen I saw there could have done it with one pec flexed (I used to recall that part of the female anatomy looking much different).

Before long, I'd lost the 'thrill' of being dwarfed at the NFL Offensive Line National Forest, so I resorted to jury-rigging exercises at home. I could do push ups, for example. They were much easier when done laying on my back. To keep working toward those washboard abs, I did volumes of abdominal crunches, though I never really thought it'd be good if anything in my abs went anything other than 'squish'. And for my legs, I 'sat' against the front door for as long as my legs could take it. Great for the thighs and posterior, I'd been told. I could go for hours in front of the TV like that, long as no one removed the chair.

After some months of this underwhelming regimen -- supplemented with the Baskin-Robbins curls -- I went into my mid-40s pushing 250 lbs. I started notice hippy-looking folks with Greenpeace stickers, shadowing me. It became as annoying as the whale song they blared at me.
Gradually, I rebounded and shed 40 lbs and the Greenpeace groupies, by finding another gym with all the right equipment and incentives.

And yes, the female scenery was THAT GOOD.

Nowadays, I stay with it often enough to sort of hold the weight between 230-240 lbs. I do note that the Earth's gravitational pull is increasing, coupled with some weird inclinations toward torsotic mass migration to the south, probably the result of all that AlGore phony-baloney global warming crapaganda. And the urge to go hit the gym after a 10+ hour shift at work seems to fade in the first whispered "park it h'yar" from my easy chair.

Still, even at 52, I manage to bestir my carcass and go exercise now and again. I do it 'cuz it's good for me, it keeps the old wreck afloat, knocks the rust off, etc.

And the female scenery there is THAT GOOD.