Jonny McCambridge: Joining the gym (again) and the perfect butt

There comes a point in your life where you begin to notice patterns of behaviour which arrive at regular cycles.
Trying to look inconspicuous in my new gym gearTrying to look inconspicuous in my new gym gear
Trying to look inconspicuous in my new gym gear

Last week I joined a gym. By my rough calculation, this is the sixth time I have taken out paid membership of a gym in my adult life.

The intentions are always noble. To lose a bit of weight, to get healthier, to boost my mental health through regular exercise.

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It always starts well. I go regularly for the first few weeks. Then the attendance becomes sporadic, until eventually I stop going altogether (although it is usually many months later before I get around to cancelling the membership).

But despite it all, there is still that optimistic voice in my head which tells me that it will be different this time. The new year, following closely a period of Christmas excess, is exactly the right time to start my new health drive.

The truth is I’m getting to that age where things are starting to happen to my body. There’s hair growing out of my ears. My previously flat stomach now swells like a balloon being filled with water.

To demonstrate how seriously I am taking the membership, I buy some new exercise gear. My old white cotton t-shirt just doesn’t fit anymore (either literally or stylistically).

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This brings me to the horror that is modern gym clothes. Baggy has been replaced by tight. Tops which seem to attach themselves to my body as if they are an extra layer of skin, revealing the curve of my belly like a bowling ball and threatening to cut off air circulation to my lungs.

Shorts seem to have been replaced by leggings. Leggings for men? Meggings?

When I go to the gym, I want to keep a low profile. Not to attract any attention. Thoughtfully the people who make the clothes have attempted to assist this by making all the gear fluorescent orange, pink or bright yellow.

All of the activities in the gym are organised on an app on my phone. Before I go to bed, I look at the timetable and plan my schedule for the morning. There is a spin cycle class at 6.30am, followed by body pump at 7.15am.

I book myself into both classes and drift off to sleep.

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What seems like seconds later, my alarm is sounding, and I know it is time to begin my fitness regime.

But then I make a fatal error. My mind wanders back to the last time I went to the gym, several years ago. And the last time I was foolish enough to try spin and body pump classes.

In my dreamlike state, I remember arriving in the little studio filled with stationary bikes. I recollect the instructor, lean, muscular and loud. She kept yelling ‘wooooo!’ as her legs moved in the pedals like machines. Everyone else in the class was fitter than me, and they all looked like they could grind coal between their thighs.

The session started and I began to turn up the resistance on the bike. I climbed out of the saddle and started to pedal furiously. Soon, there was sweat stinging my eyes and a river running down my spine.

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I remember visualising a steep mountain and telling myself over and over that I was nearing the top. I have a memory of pain all over my body, my calves and thighs on fire.

A large line of snot dropped from my nose and attached itself to the handlebars, swaying there for a few seconds between my nostril and the bike like a tightrope before it snapped.

I told myself I was not going to give up. I was going to fight through the pain. I was going to do this.

Finally, mercifully, the instructor told us to relax. I sat up gasping and wailing. Then my head sank down to rest on the bike.

And then she said ...

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‘OK guys, that’s the warm up done. Let’s start some real work now!’

Eh?

The rest of the class I remember less about, other than it passed in a blur of pain and panic. I know that I wanted to go home, wanted to lie down, wanted to die.

Then I think about the body pump class which followed. How I was the only man in the room. I had my own bench, and a bar with weights.

I remember that most of the women had heavier weights on their bar than I had been advised to try as a beginner.

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But my pathetic male pride kicked in. The bar didn’t seem so heavy, so I added on extra weight.

The instructor got us to lie back on the bench and soon I was bench-pressing the bar above my chest.

It was fine at first. At first.

Then the pain began. In my chest, my back, my biceps.

The bar seemed to get heavier and heavier until it felt like Big Daddy and Giant Haystacks were attached to either end.

My arms were shaking uncontrollably. I tried to keep going but it was no good. I had to sit up.

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But if I thought bench-presses were painful, I was horribly unprepared for the sheer naked cruelty of lunges and squats.

Up and down. Up and down. Up and down with the bar on the back of my neck, until it felt like a million tiny silver swords were being stabbed repeatedly into my legs. There was a fierce cramp crippling my hip.

The instructor saw that I was struggling, starting to waver, and began to talk directly to me in front of the whole class. To motivate me. To wind me up.

‘Come on Jonny! Keep it going!’ Stick that butt out! Stick that butt out!’

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‘Uggghh! Arrrrrgh! Uggghh! Ummmm!’ I responded, impressed at my own eloquence.

‘Nearly there Jonny! Keep it up! Think about getting that butt you’ve always wanted! Think about that perfect butt!’

In truth I don’t really think often about my own butt. I can’t even see it most of the time. My stomach worries me more because it’s right there in front of me.

I remember stumbling, waddling and dragging myself back to the changing room. Dripping sweat, my clothes sticking to my torso, worried about whether I would need a crowbar and blowtorch to remove my leggings.

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All of these memories flash through my mind as I lie in bed on this black and icy morning, trying to convince myself to get up and go to the classes.

I pull the covers back over my head. I’ll go to the gym tomorrow. I fall over to sleep again and dream about cake.