Through the Looking Glass: 49. No Pain, No Gain

Tuesday, January 1, 2013

49. No Pain, No Gain

Looking at my self honestly in the mirror led me to wonder how the hard body of my youth had evolved into the pudgy reality of the present. How my body could have let me down to that extent was a great disappointment. My reflection was put the notion of 'personal growth' into an entirely new perspective. I knew I could no longer use continuously shrinking clothing as an excuse for gaining weight.

Pushing aside my rationalization for the second piece of cheesecake and tired of not being able to breathe or walk afterward I decided that exercise was the only solution.

Remembering the strain of exercise I poured through the net seeking information as to how I might do that by remote control. Finding nothing I trolled through Kijiji seeking someone who might exercise for me. In the end I had asceed that my poor me mode was of little practical value in my pudge war.

Anxiety marked the first night I headed for the gym. How might the 'pudgy one' be received by all the trim and tight bodies sure to be there? How would I react if someone laughed? Was my deodorant as effective as effective as the commercial claimed? How many of them knew CPR for when I keeled over?

The slow pedalling on the exercise bike was like Sunday ride on a warm day, only the wind was missing. Encouraged I picked up the pace. After ten minutes I was certain that I had reached Widow maker's Hill on a blistering hot day. I strained and wheezed on.

Another ten minutes down the road the burning sensation in my legs was replaced with the wonderful distraction of sweat flowing into my eyes. Rather than cause an accident I removed my chaffed buttocks from the bike and with no feeling in my legs promptly collapsed to the floor.

After resurrecting my corpse with some semblance of dignity I did my best jello-legged macho walk to the weight room. Not surprisingly I choose the first piece of equipment that offered exercise in a sitting position... no point in overworking my finely tuned legs. Chest presses, triceps pulls, crunches and bicep work followed. A quick favourite was a butterfly machine. Designed to increase the size of ones Pec's I winged the toy and increased the resistance testing the limits of my strength. Fatigue began to make itself aware and I headed for the change room.

Sliding into a swimsuit I wandered to the pool where I planned to do a half hour of laps to round out my program. I plunged in and soon realized that lying motionless on the bottom was helping me achieve my goal. As I kicked to the surface it became clear why the swim was at the beginning of a triathlon. When the cross training was done I tried to hoist myself out in a manly way at the edge of the pool. Then I went to where the ladder offered a less embarrassing way out.

I knew I was in trouble when lowering my body into the hot tub proved a painful chore. I quietly stretched and rubbed my sore muscles to avoid stiffness and ache the next day.Tired but satisfied I knew that I would soon reap the reward for my efforts a be able to reclaim the body of my youth.

The drive home was uneventful until my calf muscles began to cramp. A bit concerned it was a delightful distraction when my pectoral muscles began to spasm across my chest. Hobbling painfully into my house was beginning to accept the notion of 'No Pain No Gain'. As the charlie horse in my thigh called for attention and my biceps locked up into a ghastly position I knew that if I wasn't dead by morning I was going to be in great shape.

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Introduction

Having moved at least twenty-five times in fifteen years has opened a world of learning to me. In six decades, an education ranging from the coldness of large cities to the isolation of remote rural locations to the busybody gossip of small towns and the wonder of the prairie and it's ocean of grass have all left their impressions on me.

Recently I relocated to a small city in British Columbia. It touted itself as a historical, cultural, educational and, over-all wonderful, place to live. Once I was past the trees and the rocks, the heights and the hills, the water and the wind, I calmed down and was ready to look at the people I was sharing that space with.

Every location I have ever squatted has had it's share of characters. Players in the cities along with the wide range of tinfoil hat wearers and baggy pants skaters were a given. Pop up strangers at odd hours surprised me with their appearance in the middle of nowhere. Rumours of my serial killer past from neighbours I had never met never swayed me. The wonder of gazing on the effects of wind on the grass ocean interrupted by a landowner enquiring why I was leaning on his fence was oft forgiven.

In this new locale a variety of characters as I had experienced elsewhere was a given. The density and variety of them however gave me more surprise than I would have expected.

I had heard comments about this place being a time warp to the sixties. However I only saw few that , by their appearance, I could say lived through the sixties. What apparitions appeared were younger and more colourful than I remember from that vague decade.

Purple haired strong armed accordionists, heavy head shaved violinists clutching tiny instruments, winter coated scarf wrapped individuals in shorts and oddly calm people with large coffees wandered the streets.

They wandered in and out of new age crystal shops, expressed opinions on local radio, bought nothing but organic food. They played jazz on squeeze boxes, made strings and wood sing in ways not intended, talked to themselves as they tightened their scarves and became more serene with each sip of coffee.

Characters here are more concentrated than in any other locale I have ever lived. It is a point of interest as well as point of concern.

It remains to be seen whether I will be mugged with organic carrots, side swiped by hooligan mountain bikers, be harangued with advice on dressing warmly or kept awake nights by jazzy sounds from an errant squeeze box. Whatever the outcome I am certain I could find it in no other place on earth to explore these particular uncertainties.

Until I am transplanted again, I extend every new-ager and boarder, every subculture economist and spiritualist, every would-be and wanna-be my deep thanks for extending me the opportunity of educating myself one measure more.