That Shit Workout

Dedicated to Emily Neale

You know the story. You’re just not in the mood.

It’s the end of the day. You’ve been at the grind for hours straight, number-crunching, glued to your PC screen, your backside slowly growing. Your eyes feel numb at the lids. Your brain is mush. There’s a dull ache at your temples. The early rays of summer beat obliquely through the window. Your collar feels slightly damp.

Your gym bag sits forlornly in the corner under your desk, wilting. You wish it wasn’t there, it offends you with its presence. Sorry, it says. But, you know, it’s that time. Time to go. Time for…THE GYM. Glumly you gather your things, log off your PC, strap the beast to your back, sighing. Just stepping outside the office into the fresh air feels like an enormous effort.

As you walk to your doomed destination, you pass several pubs, with their patrons spilling out onto the pavement. It’s sunny, and London, after all — a rare and thoroughly precious combination. The patrons’ hands are full — a pint in the left, a cheeky post-work fag in the right. Raucous laughter rings in your ears and you get a whiff of cigarette smoke as you pass. They’re making the most of the weather, you think. Why on earth am I going to that stifling, airless institution?

You get there. You peek in the window — it’s quiet. You should really go in, you think. It’s much easier when it’s quiet — everyone else is busy enjoying the weather. Your feet remain firmly planted to the pavement. You shift your weight from left foot to right foot. You slowly bite your lower lip. Suddenly, a lycra-clad runner storms past, work clothes in their backpack, sweat streaming down their limbs. Oh alright. Come on then, you urge yourself. You go inside.

Crappy chart music assaults your ears as you enter and you flinch slightly. You suddenly realise it’s not Friday — the day when they blast out old grimey garage hits. That normally puts a smile on your face. Not today. You get changed.

Fuzzily, you try to remember your planned routine. You’ve been doing an upper-lower split for a while now. What day is it today? Upper body, and you should really throw in some core. And some hill sprints too, fatty.

You step on the treadmill and press the incline button quickly and sharply, the staccato beeps ringing in your ears portentously. You begin to sprint. It’s hell. Your legs are like lead, you wheeze, you feel dizzy, you push through. You barely manage a full session of sprints, giving up half way through. Despite your poor effort, sweat pastes stray hairs flat to your head, drips down your temples. Your head spins and that foreboding feeling of nausea rises in your throat. You stagger off to the weight room.

You struggle through two short sets of bench presses. Pathetic. Your upright rows are even worse as you can barely lift your standard weight. Cringing, and hoping no one notices, you pick up a lighter barbell for your second, and last set. You finally attempt some military presses. You manage four, and give up. OK. Come on. Let’s do some planks and get the hell out of here, your brain says. You hold your first and only plank awkwardly for fifteen seconds until your thighs shudder, your stomach twists and knots, your forearms begin to convulse, all with the tremendous effort of simply holding up your body weight. You collapse onto the dusty gym mat, gasping for air.

Fuck it.

Grumbling under your breath, scowling, you morosely pick up your gym bag and, without showering, skulk to the exit, looking left and right sheepishly, hoping no-one has noticed the shoddy brevity of your time in the gym. You trudge home gloomily, sour-faced.

Your brain berates you for the rest of your journey. Well that was bloody shit, wasn’t it? Idiot. Call yourself fit? You think you deserve to wear Nike if you can barely get through a simple workout? What was the point? Why do you bother?

And then suddenly, it hits you. A tiny, budding epiphany. You repeat the snide question — Why do you bother?

That’s it, you think. You still bothered. You were pathetic, but you still did it. You struggled, but you still pushed yourself through. It was a shit workout, sure, but it still beat sitting on your arse watching cat videos on YouTube.

You smile to yourself as you come to the realisation that, despite your feelings of inadequacy, despite your self-pitying meekness, you don’t regret that shit workout at all.