Weighty matters

It’s 11:05 p.m. I’m at the gym, just wrapping up my workout. Not my best session, but I finished strong and I’m reasonably pleased. As a bonus, I hit the scales when I walked in and I’m exactly where I wanted to be.

None of the usual crowd was in the gym tonight, except for Philly Cat. He’s a wiry Southeast Asian guy who I’ve seen many nights for the past 18 months. I notice he’s gotten pretty chiseled lately. He’ll never be big, but he’s gotten stronger and more defined. I think of him as Philly Cat because most nights he wears a black t-shirt that says Philly Cat baseball.

I’m wrapping up my last set of bicep curls when I notice a huge guy walk over to the leg press machine. I’ve never seen him here before, and believe me, he’s a guy you’d notice. About 5’8” or so and huge – huge arms, huge legs, huge chest. I watch him load up the plates on the leg press, and he just keeps stacking them, one after the other. He finally stops only because he’s run out of room; the machine cannot hold any more plates. He has 11 plates on each spindle, or 495 pounds per side – 990 pounds total.

That’s nearly half a ton.

He proceeds to press this weight 15 times on his first set, and I know that’s just a warm-up.

I’m wondering exactly what else this guy’s going to do here tonight, and I half-thing about hanging around just to watch. There are some strong guys at this gym that I’ve seen put up some impressive lifts from time to time, but I’m thinking this guy would best any of them. If it weren’t so late I might hop on the treadmill and run a couple of miles and see what he can do, but I really need to get home.

As I walk out the door I’m feeling a bit out of sorts. I could work out every day for the rest of my life and not get anywhere near where he is in terms of pure strength. And I don’t want to, really, but I’m a little depressed that what I considered to be a pretty good effort just 15 minutes ago would be a joke to this guy. In the grand scheme of things, my efforts were insignificant.

But then I remember what I told Chris, my four-year old son, a few days ago. He was sad because a buddy of his in pre-school could run faster than he could. “Dad, I run as fast as I can, but Jackson still beats me every time,” he said. I told him as long as runs as fast as he can and doesn’t quit, and gives his best effort, that’s what counts. In most things in life, you really are measuring your performance against yourself. There will always be someone bigger, stronger, and faster – the goal is to be the very best you can be.

As I told him these things I know I’m telling this to myself as much as to Chris. And tonight is a night when I have to listen to myself. Did I do the best I could tonight? Am I achieving the goals I set for myself? Do I feel good about my effort tonight?

I did. I am. And I do.

Not only that, but for every guy like Adonis (I have to give him a nickname) in the gym who is immensely strong, there are 20 fat guys at home on the couch or in bed at 11:05 p.m. on Wednesday night. At least I’m in the gym.

Thanks, Chris.

It’s great to be The Family Man.