Freshman year gym class was a nightmare.
When I strolled into Sinagua High School for the first time, I decided I’d had enough of sports and exercise. This was it — one last painful semester of gym class, and then I was set for life. I’d never have to think about running, throwing a ball, or how many servings of vegetables I needed each day. My nutrition and health assignments were a breeze, but meanwhile, I was struggling to bench press a 45-pound barbell and lazily walking the mile in 20 minutes. When the semester wrapped up, I took my “pass” grade, practically skipped out the classroom door and resolved to never look back.
Fast forward four years and I started school at NAU. It was a glorious time. Every day at the Student Union was a bountiful feast of fried chicken, tacos, cheeseburgers, and pizza. For late weekend nights, nearby Milton had tons of cheap fast food to satiate me. The dreaded “Freshman 15” soon turned into 25 and even more as the years passed.
I wasn’t happy with my body. My bad habits soon became a bad lifestyle.
My mother started working out at Flagstaff’s New Roots Personal Training. It was a huge change to her lifestyle, and she was beginning to see great results. She introduced me to her trainer, Jesse Coddington, and encouraged me to join too. I always told her I’d think about it, just to humor her. It wasn’t until she bought me three months of sessions that I relented. I dragged my lousy carcass to the gym, grumbling to myself the whole way there. I did my three months to make my mom happy, and then the strangest thing happened – I kept coming back.
I was hooked. I went from barely being able to hold the barbell above my head to learning how to bench press with proper form. My lazy 20-minute walking mile turned to a comparatively brisk 12-minute jog/walk. And, while I still haven’t figured out the eating problem, my weight dropped to the lowest it had been in years.
It was hard work, but it was also invigorating. Even if I came into the gym with a bad attitude, I always left feeling great. I wasn’t thinking about anything except maintaining a steady descent on the back squat or controlling my breath on the bench press within a few minutes of starting.
It was simple: just move the weight, then move it again, then move it again. The rest of the world didn’t exist at that moment. I was making progress, and even incremental progress was having an impact on my mental health.
“You’re another day stronger; another day harder to kill,” Jesse often said at the end of each workout, accompanied by a requisite fist bump.
But then it all stopped.
The gym closed in March 2020 with COVID closures, adding another item to my steadily growing list of uncertainties. The New Roots team continued to keep people active with home workout programs, and I kept up for a little bit. But old habits set back in and I spent my evenings with takeout and movies, rather than getting off the couch and moving my body. A mercifully minor case of COVID kept me homebound for a week in August. I was completely deterred from going out after recovering even as restrictions eased and the gym reopened. I made empty promises to myself that I would find a way to get moving again. Meanwhile, the jeans I bought in January became a little bit harder to slip on each time and I was running out of comfortable shirts in my closet. The meal-prepping I once stuck to suddenly had more “cheat days.” My mental health and motivation took a nosedive. The months wore on and bad habits again turned into a bad lifestyle.
Persistence on Jesse’s part (and two jabs of the vaccine) finally drove me back to the gym in the spring. The first few weeks knocked the wind out of me and put my weakened muscles to the test. But then it all came back. The muscle memory of locking the shoulders, arching the back, digging in the heels and keeping my core tight as I lifted the bar off the rack on the bench press. The little voice in the back of my head telling me to throw on the 45-pound plates and chase another set returned. The heavy metal music blaring in the gym, the crushing guitar riffs and bellowing screams becoming the perfect soundtrack to pushing my body to extremes. After months of inactivity, I didn’t realize how much I needed to experience the feeling of training again.
I finished a set on the bench press a few weeks back, breathing heavy and sweating in the 89-degree heat.
“God, I’ve missed this,” I said.
Jesse smiled, but I think I was saying it to myself more than I was saying it to him. If you had told me 15 years ago that I’d miss doing bench press of all things, I would’ve laughed in your face.
It’s hard work. It’s not always fun. But I suppose it wouldn’t be worth doing otherwise. Just last week, I hit two personal records: 405 pounds on the deadlift and 185 on the bench press. There’s nowhere for me to go but up from here.
Another day stronger; another day harder to kill.
