You think you’re healthy? You think that walking everywhere is exercise? That eating plenty of veg and not snacking between meals is a balanced diet? No sweets, crisps or smoking is good? I’ve got news for you: it’s not. Or at least, not good enough. If my trip to the gym this week is anything to go by, you’re probably going to become obese, experience health problems and drop dead before you get to the end of this post. Sorry to break it to you: you’re fucked.
Last week, after finding a job, I joined the local gym. I had been putting it off till I could join one close to my new employer and couldn’t think of any new excuses, so I sucked it up and signed on with the local Fitness First. I know they are a big chain-store gym and therefore the capitalist pigs of the exercise world, but they have all the mod cons and I can use any of their gyms anywhere in the world whenever I like, so I sold out like an unsigned band on an iPod commercial and now I’m a member. Unlike the gym at my previous job, this one isn’t a company perk so I will actually have to go to make the $25 per week worth it: I often say that the aesthetic standard of the clientele is enough to make me a regular gym-bunny, but I worked for a university for three years with a constant stream of toned, nubile 18- to 21-year-olds getting hot and sweaty all day every day and that still didn’t keep me going, so hopefully the money will be more of a stimulus. As I haven’t really set foot in a gym for a year, I thought I should have an instructor tell me what to do for the first few sessions to avoid my rolling off the back of the treadmill in cramp-related agony or crushing my windpipe under that bar thingy in the weights room. But before they tell you how to avoid killing yourself, they have to assess your fitness. And this is where all the laughter stops.
Monday morning, 7.30am. (I know, I’m mad keen, aren’t I?) Stephen, a charming young chap who, judging by his physique, clearly knows his stuff, took me into a little assessment room to do my test and pronounce my fitness levels. It reminded me of going to ask for a loan. Why does every business seem to have these little consultation rooms nowadays? The bank, the post office, the mobile phone shop. When the kebab van gets a portakabin ante-room extension, do you think we will realise things have gone too far? Anyhoo, I digress. Inside the fitness room I was weighed (82kg) and measured (191cm) and I did a quick bit of maths to work out that my BMI is around 21/22 (oh yes – I’m clever like that), so I feel pretty smug that I am well within the ‘normal’ range. I am confident that this is not going to be a disaster after all: all that trampolining and squash paid off. Oh, and while I’m on it: people don’t need to be so surprised that I did trampolining, no, I’m not too tall and yes, it is a proper sport. This information goes into the computer and disappears. And by ‘this information’, I mean the health data: my rant about trampolining isn’t recorded.
Next up: cardio fitness, or rather cardio recovery rate; this is where things start going downhill. It turns out I have a high pulse – well, not just high, more “why haven’t you exploded yet?” super-speed, which is not down to the fact that I had one cup of tea before I arrived. I was running slightly late but Stephen doesn’t think that would cause it to race at 94bpm. I was a little surprised at this, but poor old Stephen was aghast: did I have a heart problem? ”No.” Do I ever feel dizzy? ”Not really.” Please don’t die on me! “I’ll do my best.” After some rather boring exercises involving stepping up and down looking at a blank wall for the longest three minutes of my life, these unsettling figures also went down the fibre-optic highway into digital oblivion. All that time jumping around on a big springy matress appears to count for naught in the harsh light of the Fitness First consultancy booth.
The following two tests were over quickly enough: I kicked ass at flexibility (natch – I’m as bendy as a 25-year-old and I have the results to prove it) acquitted myself admirably at stomach crunches, but delivered an epic press-up fail. It’s these spindly slender arms, damn it! All this was fed into the machine and before I knew it I was staring at my scientifically measured ‘fitness age’. According to my test results, I have the overall fitness of a 52-year-old. I nearly fell off my chair. For one moment I thought it wasn’t as bad as it was but then Stephen said “these are just some numbers and nothing to worry about” which is letting-you-down-gently code for “sheesh man, what the fuck is this? You should be ashamed of yourself”. There was also a handy breakdown showing you precisely where your train had come off the rails and wouldn’t you know it: my dodgy old heart had dragged the stats up from ‘unfit for your age’ to ‘let me check your date of birth again because this can’t be right’. But it is right: I have the cardio stamina of a 74-year-old. Perhaps my heart is doing a Benjamin Button and when I actually am 74 I shall have a 22-year-old ticker? Stephen says no.
Ordinarily this kind of news would be enough to put me off going back for life, but after some google self-diagnosis it appears that ‘life’ will be considerably shorter if I do that: the best way to reduce a high resting heart rate is to exercise. So if anyone wants me between now and, say, the end of time, you know where to look: I’ll be in the gym.
