makes you wonder at the way we've embraced the Nazi cult of
physical perfection so unquestioningly.
crunch: Works the rectus abdominis, the wide flat
muscle that runs from your breastbone to the top of your pelvis.
Lie on the floor with your feet hip-width apart. Cradle your head
in your hands without lacing your fingers together and with your
elbows rounded slightly inward. Tilt your chin a small way towards
your chest and pull your abdominal muscles in. Exhale through your
mouth as you curl your head, neck, and shoulders up off the floor.
Hold at the top of the movement for a moment, then inhale as you
slowly lower down.
A few months ago, due to a variety of circumstances mostly beyond my control,
I joined a local gym or "fitness and lifestyle centre" as it
claims to be. So what? you might say, fitness and personal health have
been mainstream since the late 1980s.
Youre right, but then you dont know me.
For a start, it seems most people who join gyms have a weight problem,
or at the very least would like to be a few pounds lighter than they are.
Gyms are well aware of this and have a whole variety of equipment, schedules,
advisors and exhortatory propaganda explaining how a sensible (read "boring
and inadequate") diet coupled with "regular exercise" melts
your blubber away. Thats fine and probably true, but the heaviest
Ive ever been is 135lbs. Could I trouble you to read that sentence
My current weight is a bag of sugar or two under 125 lbs, and for most
of the 1990s, until the middle aged spread started, I was under 120 lbs
on the rare occasions I bothered to weigh myself. At five foot ten your
correspondent is no dwarf; and at 37 years old hes no infant either.
Like most of you I have a slight weight problem, but it runs in the opposite
direction. Ive never been on a diet in my life.
The other pertinent fact is that I hate physical exercise, always have
done, and always
well more of that later. Basically Im weak,
round-shouldered, uncoordinated, and get debilitating asthma if I do any
physical activity except swimming. Why? Because you swim in a dust-free
environment and being torpedo shaped and light is an advantage. As a boy
some success lead to the county swimming squad but failure arrived in
the form of Steve Reid, a likeable, reliable and very committed lad who
was always faster; sometimes by as much as a second. Fate decided we went
to the same high school, and naturally were in the same "House."
For the next five years I was the reserve for the 25, 50 and 100 metre
breast-stroke at every county level gala, the occasional inter-school
galas, and of course the annual house gala as well. Steve was never absent
or ill at the "right time" and I never swam in front of a crowd
after my 12th birthday. I came close in the third form; Steve broke some
minor rule and got a detention with an automatic ban on representing the
school for a week. The news made me nervous and excited about the gala
on Thursday evening against a local private school. I neednt have
bothered; Steve went directly to the Headmaster, begged for an alternative
punishment and the Master (former PE teacher, school patriot, and sadist)
was only too happy to oblige. Its doubtful that Steves performance
was enhanced by three welts across his gluteus maximus, but he learnt
his lesson. Me too: I learned that serious athletes are nuts.
Fast forward to university the asthma drugs have improved, my flatmate
is into body-building and climbing, and Im dragged along to both.
The climbing is intense, frightening, and enjoyable in disturbed sort
of way (were into Hemingway and nihilism at the time). The bodybuilding
done in the corner of a drafty Nissan hut is boring and embarrassing
and futile. Theres also a narcissistic element, a gay element, lots
of dusty full length mirrors and some rather dangerous yet dull drugs.
I still go swimming occasionally, mostly on holiday in the Med. Fast forward
again and Im living and working in Geneva. Skiing is the local obsession
and I love it the landscape, thrills and excitement of alpine climbing
with a much reduced danger factor. A bad skiing accident breaks your leg;
a bad climbing accident kills you just hope its not from slow strangulation
by a rope or slow hypothermia with two broken legs and a lung punctured
by your crushed ribs. By the age of 25 Im in Paris; a chess player,
a film watcher, a book reader, amateur poet, a car fixer, out of
shape but who cares, especially as my physique screams THIN! THIN! THIN!
to all but the blind.
So you can imagine the sceptic that slouched into the gym last autumn,
the first time in at least 15 years. An irritatingly charming and persuasive
friend accompanies me, cheerfully ignoring the contempt on my face and
single phrase replies. We begin by doing stretches a series of
more or less ludicrous positions you adopt to prepare muscles for their
work. They look stupid, are a bit uncomfortable and take time to do (minimum
of 20 seconds each, at least ten stretches in total), but they work. Ive
suffered no sore feelings or twinges after any recent exercise session,
no matter how tough. If any of you have memories of exercise and being
stuff for days afterwards, learn some stretches. They are easy to do,
need zero equipment, and they really work. Then theres the gym itself
theres all sorts of snazzy looking machinery lined up in
rows, well oiled and maintained. Most of it quiet, which certainly wasnt
true years ago when sweaty grunts provided the bass line to the equipments
metallic treble of squeaks and bangs. Theres also piped music, a
range of music and T.V. channels to plug your headphones into, and a bank
of T.V.s on the wall. Even the air-conditioning helps, as Id always
associated gyms with the smell of socks. Science has yet to eliminate
the smell but good AC blows most of it outside into the car-park.
We begin with ten minutes on the treadmill, a sort of mini moving walkway
you find at airports. I start slowly and gradually increase the speed;
its not a very pleasant feeling; I have visions of being shot backwards
if I trip, but the feeling wears off quickly. After ten minutes I do a
final two minutes at a dizzy 12 Kmh. Coming off theres a feeling
of sea-sickness, common to first-time users; Ive since discovered
that disappears too. Then its straight onto the cross trainer, a sort
of stand fitted with pedals, rather like a big exercise bike, but linked
to handles that move backwards and forwards. The nerd in me enjoys the
various settings on the digital control panel, and theres a moment
of sly fun discovering my friends weight as she taps it into the
adjacent machine. The cross trainer attempts to simulate walking up an
uneven hill, with the resistance of the pedals representing various gradients.
Frankly its not very realistic; but it certainly increases your heart-rate
and makes your back sweat. Its now that the TVs become useful, because
this is quite hard exercise, its very repetitive, and as any wage slave
knows very repetitive equals mindlessly boring. Which is my main criticism
of the rowing machine, the last piece of cardio-vascular equipment we
try. This is hard work, its boring, and it makes you sweat, but its undeniably
physical exercise. Pity its so unpleasant and dull.
Then its onto the weights, or weight machines. These are various intimidating
pieces of equipment that exercise a specific part of the body, or more
precisely muscle group. Mainly they work on the chest and arms, but a
few will tone your legs as well. Weight machines tend to be used to build
up muscles, which is allegedly what Im here for. I do five machines
in all, and do ten repetitions on each, followed by a minutes rest followed
by another ten, and a final ten. The final ten "reps" (as gym
rats call them) are the worst; a strange mixture of pain and desperation
as the arms shake, the teeth clench and your body starts to jack-knife
in all sorts of useless ways trying to get some additional force from
somewhere to the arms or legs. We finish with 100 crunches, a particularly
nasty exercise that tones the stomach muscles, or "six-pack"
in the moronic gym jargon. Crunches hurt (no, they "burn" insists
my friend) when youve done a few. Then its more stretches followed
by an Everest-like climb upstairs to the changing room. Theres definitely
an altered state of consciousness experienced here; the world seems distorted
and remote, like looking through thick glass into an aquarium. Perhaps
some might experience it as an addictive "high" but for me it
seems closer to a period of sensory depravation and extreme stupidity
and either way, it doesnt last for more than five minutes. If thats
the vaunted power of endorphins, its little wonder that people have been
busy inventing hallucinogenic drugs for millennia.
With a few trivial changes to the details, thats how I spent one
and half hours every other day for three months. After all, I was assured,
it takes a while to get into the swing of things. And why not? Id
nothing else planned and itll be fun to have been fit for a while,
another waste of time and money justified as "experience."
What actually happened? To begin with, for a month or so, very little.
My technique improved, the gym and its equipment lost its intimidating
atmosphere. By about half way through the second month, Id lost
seven pounds of much needed weight, and my forearms had grown a couple
of minute bumps, about this þ big. By the end of the second month
my resting pulse was down to a frightening 55 beats per minute (yours
is probably somewhere between 60 and 70). The lower your pulse, the fitter
you are; apparently some professional athletes are down in the low 40s.
And then there was the sweating. You see, being thin, Im rarely
if ever warm, let alone hot. OK so walking down Las Vegas Boulevard in
July produces a drop of perspiration or two, as does shopping in Florence
in June, or waiting for a bus in Athens in August. Now I found myself
sweating in London in February. Sitting down I sweat. Doing my teeth I
sweat. My feet and palms, normally as dry as a lizards, become soft and
clammy. Again this is supposed to be a good sign; the fitter you are the
more readily and profusely you sweat. George Orwells description
of Parsons, the insufferable party man in 1984 sums it up well;
"An overpowering smell of sweat, a sort of unconscious testimony
to the strenuousness of his life, followed him about wherever he went,
and even remained behind him after he had gone."
Parsons is of course a fictional character in a satirical novel. What
are the gym rats really like? Well, overall they fall into several groups.
For a start, there are probably slightly more women than men, although
its surprised me how many men there were. Overall it was almost half and
half, although many men seemed to do the weights, while women tended to
congregate on the treadmills, the exercise bikes and other forms of cardio-vascular
equipment. Only one place seemed to be exclusively female; the areobics
class was 100% female according to my sources, probably because it features
dancing, lycra, and abysmal music. But that was the exception.
The majority of gym regulars looked fit, slim, toned and glowed with health.
Which ladies, is not often the same as sexy, heres no less an authority
than James Bond on the subject (in Ian Flemings "From Russia
'A purist would have disapproved of her behind. Its muscles were so
hardened with exercise that it had lost the smooth downward feminine sweep,
and now, round at the back and flat and hard at the sides, it jutted like
Some gym rats were older than others, some were slightly fatter, but overall
these regulars with their sinewy necks and chiselled rears formed the
core group, at ease with their bodies, themselves, the staff and the equipment.
I couldnt detect much of the social mix, although "my"
gym, while being comparatively cheap by London standards was still around
£40 per month to use so we can safely assume they were all working
and earning reasonable wages.
The second group was a bunch of rather scary men who used the weights,
especially the dumb-bells ("free-weights" in the jargon) a lot.
These guys were deadly serious, although like any group of enthusiasts
happy to advise and help a novice. I heard some of them were body builders,
some were bouncers in night clubs and bars. These men were tough, but
strangely narcissistic and a hint of insecurity often crossed their faces
as they frowned at themselves in the long mirrors. I recognised them from
my student days; the equipment may have changed a little, but their culture
The third group were the brave. Not to insult them, but these were the
fatties. Yet theyd identified the problem and were doing something
about it. It must take a great deal of courage to exercise surrounded
by the regulars with their compact bodies and neat fashionable outfits.
I especially felt for the fat middle aged women shaped like barrels; working
out was clearly unpleasant if not painful to them, along with the embarrassment
of exposure. I just hope they stick at it and manage to get something
out of it.
The final group were the addicts. These people went to the gym every single
day, and spent hours there. Tough and sinewy, sweating profusely yet never
really breathless, this group had some life issues to ignore or were simply
addicted to exercise. Most of the instructors belonged to this group,
although one or two were failed professional sports people, and the others
were sporty types who took advantage of the equipment every working day.
I kept up my membership for a little over three months, I went at least
three times every week without fail, and often four or five times. The
exercise never became easy, since you increase the resistance of the various
machines and equipment as you get fitter. The most extraordinary thing
was just how hard it was to make progress. For the first time I began
to actually respect body-builders; it must take years and years of intense
uncomfortable training to produce huge muscles, no wonder that many will
take any drug going to speed up a process that has a geological time scale.
As for the actual usable benefits: well according to an Internet questionnaire,
Ill live to be 80.9 years old (note the point nine) and running
for a bus a few weeks ago felt effortless; you could almost hear my legs
scornful "Was that it!?" after a short sprint had me opposite
the driver and breathing normally. But was it worth so many hours of drudgery
and discomfort? Ive never really had a problem with my physique;
Ive never been athletic, and never wanted to be since my 10th birthday.
Which is why I remain deeply sceptical of the whole gym ethos. Its founded
on principals of rugged individuality yet in practice its rigorously conformist.
People on exercise machines look like robots or factory workers on the
most brutal production line. If the ancient Greeks invented the gymnasium,
2500 years later it was the National Socialists who mostly keenly embraced
it as part of the superman creed. American critic Susan Sontag's famous
essay "Fascinating Fascism" addresses the topic:
"Fascist art displays a utopian aesthetic; that of physical perfection.
Painters and sculptors under the Nazis often depicted the nude, but they
were forbidden to show any bodily imperfections. Their nudes look like
pictures in physique magazines: pinups which are both sanctimoniously
asexual and (in a technical sense) pornographic, for they have the perfection
of a fantasy."
The men and women in the magazines and posters scattered around the gym
illustrate it perfectly; grimly handsome models seem interchangeable with
Becker's sculptures or Riefenstahls flawless black and white images
of Aryan athletes. It makes you wonder at the way we've embraced the Nazi
cult of physical perfection so unquestioningly. Health and well-being
and looks cease to become an interest or a blessing and are instead shunted
off to the individual, another obligation but packaged attractively in
a wrapper called "lifestyle." The gym ethos is also grimly elitist,
a fact played on by a recent Nike women campaign. In the gym a series
of fake memorial plaques and posters "commemorate" all those
who fell by the wayside in January (the traditional time when gyms are
full of new members). An example reads:
To all those who disappeared in January.
Who didnt know how to use the equipment (but who hogged it anyway)
who never braved the free weights. Who thought the mirrors were for hair
checks and whose favourite piece of equipment was the sauna. Have a relaxing
year in front of the TV. See you next January.
I suppose we can also use our Nike Womens jackboots to kick sand
in the weaklings face.
The subtext is clear; we the chosen few do know how to use the equipment,
and arent scared of the free-weights. Were fit and strong
and determined and have "The Triumph of the Will" in buckets.
Well, the gym rats can keep it. If you want to get high, use drugs. If
you want to lose weight, eat less. If the gym rats want to keep fit, fine
but please dont pretend its more than a hobby like collecting Beanie
Babies, oil painting, or fixing old cars. And please stop inflicting your
self righteousness on the rest of us.
© Roger Kirkham
< Reply to this Article