Age is only a number, albeit one that gets bigger with every passing year. A number that is suppose to celebrate the time we’ve spend on this spinning blue ball. A number that should be indicative of our experience, of lessons learned, mistakes made. So why is it the cause of so much anguish and turmoil for some people? (Present company excluded.) The answer probably lies in the fact that age is also a timer counting down our own mortality. The end of the road. The kicking of the bucket. Death. And then whatever you consider might lie beyond that final breath. (Morbid much?)
Being on a journey to our inevitable demise shouldn’t imply that we settle into a casual stride on route to the final date with the grim reaper. The journey should be an adventure where we pause at places that’s off the beaten track. Taking little detours as often as we can. Making the most of the number you have, as each one only last a year. Growing old should be fun, a process of flipping the bird to Father Time. And not because of vanity but merely because we need to re-establish general consensus of what age actually means. Haven’t we proven that thirty is the new twenty? Or forty is the new thirty? Or that Sandra Bullock still knocks my socks off at fifty. Even though most men would probably take more than their socks off, if she would ask them to do so.
So how do we maintain youth and embrace age at the same time? You need to get your head straight. You are only as old as you feel. But that only takes care of the inside. What about the outside? I reckon one of the cheapest ways to cheat the number would be by keeping fit, taking care of your body. And there are so many options available to do so effectively. From running, cycling, rope jumping, stepping, swimming, weights, kettle bells, dumbbells, aerobics, kick-boxing and even attempting to fit into a position where you can comfortably kiss your own arse. (Commonly referred to as Yoga). Even though we rely on pain killers for our recovery, we do our bit to fend of the constant attack of wrinkles, age spots and the croaking sound I started to make when I get up. More expensive alternatives for beating age at its own game include lotions, potions, vitamins, supplements and even surgery that has the potential to turn you into a smug looking idiot without the ability to smile. Some men even try younger woman.
trying training for a little over ten years, trying my best to stay ahead of the pack. I like to think it is a semi-healthy lifestyle that has a nice balance between NOT becoming a fitness, fanatic freak-a-zoid and NOT becoming an over-sized coach potato. On the downside of my balanced lifestyle is the fact that I’m still not flexible enough to kiss my own arse and I still don’t, nor have I ever had a six-pack. (Unless you count beer) On the flip side, I am still able to see my hanging parts quite comfortably when I stand. I can kneel down to tie my shoes and get back up without assistance. And most importantly, my man boobs do not require any support to keep them perky. I’m even able to run a few miles without collapsing like a fish on dry land and I can almost bench my own body weight. Even if I only did it twice. My commitment issue is not with the exercise part but with the eating part. I enjoy red wine too much. And pasta. And steak. And Iced Zoo cookies.
The last ten years of my life has been drenched in blood, sweat, tears and a fluctuating body fat percentage. Why do I do it? I’m insane, that’s why. I need a life, that’s why. But there’s obviously something more to this raving lunatic.
Quitting was never an option. Not only because I really enjoy throwing weights around but because there has been something else that kept me going in those times when it sucked more than usual to get up at the crack of dawn. This other thing has now finally come to pass. And it was definitely worth the wait. I have reached the summit after an arduous climb and I couldn’t be happier. It’s like I won an ultra-marathon but without the sore feet, funky smelling shirt and big trophy.
My summit is the fact that my son has finally reached an age where he wants to join me in my daily training sessions. And the key-word is, he WANTS to.
I’ve always wondered if my son would consider training with me as Dude is a naturally gifted sportsman with great ball-sense and the reason for my paternity tests. His reasons for training is not very clear. He has been talking about it for a couple of months and finally made the leap. Maybe it’s because he finally hit his growth spurt and wants to make the most of it. Maybe he wants to be a better, stronger athlete. Maybe he doesn’t like getting injured being a fly-half on the rugby field. Maybe it’s because everyone else is doing it. Maybe he wants to impress a girl. Maybe he wants to improve his beach-bod for summer.
Or maybe he just wants to spend some more time with his old man. All his friends are going to a different gym at school and he declined their invitation to join them. He told them he’ll rather train with me.
In the end it’s actually irrelevant what his motivation for training is, the mere fact that he wants to do it with his father, makes it priceless. At least to me.