OK, I don’t have the muscle mass of Alan Ritchson, the super-jacked actor who stars as Jack Reacher on Prime Video. Or actor Dwayne Johnson aka The Rock because if he were anymore rocked up, he’d be a mountain range.
But I’m also not a glob of gooey fat or skinny enough to be mistaken for a rake handle. Nobody ever calls my arms guns but if I flex them, you’ll notice a hill on my biceps. Sadly, nobody ever asks me to flex them.
Nevertheless, I work out regularly and have been doing so since my teens. Since I’m now in my 70s, that’s six decades of doing cardio and weights. Man, after all that labor I should look like Hercules. I guess I forgot the steroids.
Even when my daily schedule is fuller than Santa’s belly, I make sure I get up early to fit my workout in. My routine usually lasts around an hour and usually is the best hour of my day. That’s because I’m in charge for that one hour. My wife is the boss the other 23 hours.
I realize those who loathe working out must think my life sucks. Fortunately it does not. I’m merely harnessed to an iron discipline. Whatever vitality I have comes from dedication and repetition. Exercise, just like brushing my teeth, simply is part of my daily routine. It’s one addiction that’s good for you.
Why am I so devoted? Because I feel guilty as hell if I don’t work out. Which is why daily exercise eases my mind and soothes my spirit when my salt cravings have me reaching for that extra potato chip or my sweet tooth has me inhaling that extra piece of dark chocolate.
I first started working out to get in better shape for high school sports. And then for college intramural sports when I realized I wasn’t varsity material at Temple University. For the next three decades or so I worked out because of vanity.
Once I hit my mid-60s I worked out to help keep the Grim Reaper at bay. It takes strength to give that dastardly dude a violent stiff arm. Granted, being in good shape doesn’t mean squat if a tractor trailer decides to park on your chest. But I’ll take my chances of that not happening.
Going to the gym is a communal experience as you work out alongside others. But now I’m the old guy who lifts less weight than my comrades who seem to be getting younger and stronger all the time. How’s that for a reality check?
It makes me nostalgic for my 20s when I had more muscle, a lot more hair and was one of the young bucks at the Reading YMCA. Pro wrestlers worked out there in those days when they were in town to wrestle at the old Hamburg Fieldhouse and bunk at the Abe Lincoln Hotel.
I once worked out near Superstar Billy Graham, who was quite popular in WWF circles in the 1970s. His muscles had muscles. He was 6 feet 4 inches and 275 pounds of chiseled beef bronzed with a fluorescent tan. He had the biggest biceps imaginable, almost as huge as beer kegs.
I would have loved to borrow his body for just 72 hours. There were three guys I wanted to beat up and since I was single then, four women I wanted to make love to.
When it came to carving muscle, Graham was Michelangelo with marble, Mozart with melodies and Rembrandt with canvas. And he loved it when his muscles glistened under a beaded mail of sweat.
Now don’t get me wrong. When it comes to muscles, the only thing Superstar Billy Graham and I had in common is we both pumped iron. I just pumped a lot less. A lot, lot less.
I’m no fitness fanatic, no workout warrior. I don’t train like a Navy Seal. Just an ordinary seal. I work out enough to keep the blood and joints moving, more of a herculean task as I get older.
But when I’m in the gym and I’m feeling that endorphin pump, I momentarily lull myself into thinking I’ve discovered the Fountain of Youth. Down deep I realize that’s a crock. However, there are times when it’s better not to think too deeply.
Mike Zielinski, a resident of Berks County, is a columnist, novelist, playwright and screenwriter.
Source: Berkshire mont
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