Losing my religion

Arlin Marshall (1955), photo by Bob Mizer, from, "Beefcakes and monkeys: Bob Mizer's muscle men" via The Guardian. Needless to say, my beefcake days are either well behind me or far ahead.

Me: Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a week since my last workout, and I accuse myself of the following sins: I've been indulging in chocolate and ice cream bars and carelessly ingesting carbs.

Gym Priest: Alright, my child, say five "Our Fathers" for your penance, track your eating habits and nutritional intake with an app on your phone, don't forget to take 5 mg of Creatine with a glass of water each day, write down and plan your exercise goals for the week, and remember to stay hydrated.

Me: Thank you, Father

I have genuflected at the altar of weights in great hopes of altering my weight, but I'm stuck and feel like I'm going backwards. I've been trying so hard to get back into "game shape" to do this charity ride by focusing on more difficult rides, biking wherever I go, and hitting the gym for resistance training. Yet, the only resistance I'm getting is from my body. They say, "Use it or lose it," meaning, I assume, the more you use your legs, the longer you'll be able to use them - like a sort of muscle generator. Lately though, rather than getting stronger, it feels like I'm wearing myself out. Aren't there only so many miles my knees can take before the warranty is void? I'm not just feeling worn out, but I feel like I'm wearing out. Not fully broken, but limping towards the finish line.

There have been plenty of times I've asked myself "Am I getting too old for this?" Usually, when I see some aging wretch of a person dressed like a teenager, I think they are definitely too old for that. One afternoon, I was out on my bike, charging up a hill, when an older guy was coming down. He was dressed in a bright, gaudy Lycra so common a few years ago. The current "look" for cyclists is earthy greens, beiges and navy blues, with very few stripes or adornments. I have a fluorescent green windbreaker I wore a little while ago, and I immediately felt like a 1980s aerobic instructor. All I was missing was the leg warmers. No, wait, I was wearing leg warmers (yes, cyclists have leg warmers, just not the fancy knit/Flashdance ones you may be thinking of). I definitely asked myself, "Am I too old for this?"

Yet, isn't that exactly why I'm doing it in the first place? To get old as gracefully as possible. I want to be bounding up stairs, looking jaunty and ropey as an older man. At this point, I'm closer to the end than the start, and I often compare myself not just to my father but his cohort; those pot-bellied fellows, combing over their wisps of hair in a vain attempt to convince us they still had some. It's not so much about how they looked (OK, it is a bit), because let's face it, no one is going to pull up in a limo, hand me a business card and say, "Kid, I think you could be a big star with a physique like that!" Firstly, that is very creepy. Secondly, I'm about five-foot-nothing, with a salt and pepper beard that's a little saltier these days. My cares about having a beach body washed out with the tides a long time ago. No, my goals these days are so much more modest. If you want to age well, you have to start early and often.

It's the "often" part I'm having trouble with. It's hard to keep the faith when your body can't keep up with your mind, and your mind is getting tired of constantly kicking your body out of bed and haranguing it to get your boots on and get out there. I'm hoping once this charity ride I'm training for is done, I can return to doing whatever exercise I'm in the mood for: a swim on a hot day, breezy rides on sunny days, hitting the gym on rainy ones. For now, I'll say my "Our Fathers" and go for a hail Mary from time to time, and maybe I'll find myself born again.