The Psychology of Working Out in My 40s

The alarm on my phone chimes every morning at 5 a.m. I keep it in another room to force myself to get up and walk to it in order to shut it off. Then to the bathroom sink I go, rinsing my mouth out, then my hands and finally my face and nostrils, all with cold water.

“You’re fortunate to have woken up this morning,” I tell myself. “In this world 151,600 people did not for various reasons, but you get a shot at another day. So wake your punk ass up!”

I turn on something to meditate, ground myself, give thanks and focus. A morning prayer, a meditative chant. I commit the next several minutes to something greater than myself.

Then sweats on. I bundle up because the morning fall weather is characteristically chilly, but uncomfortable. I make sure I’ve got my phone and headsets and drop them into my nylon backpack. It was a freebie I got from someplace I don’t remember. Then I hoist my bike down four flights of stairs. Finally, I hit the street, headed to the gym. By now, I’ve been awake 30 minutes. Years ago, I would have still been sound asleep.

But I’ve got a new motivation now. I’ve got a new why. I’ve hit those years where men start to be affected by things that do everything from taking away their good looks to killing them. I’m used to being young. I’m used to a certain degree of virility. Maybe it's vanity, but I think it’s more of a desire to survive as long as I can. Age is going to creep up on me and there’s nothing I can do about that. But I’d rather have my life be majority active before I head downhill and when I do, I want the slide to be quick, manageable, then over. But we’re (hopefully) not there yet.

The cool morning air is hitting my face as I ride west away from the emerging dawn. Today’s gonna be a sunny day. Autumn has hit Brooklyn a few weeks late, apparently waiting until after Halloween to turn the leaves a beautiful golden color. As I ride through the neighborhood, I’m thinking about this morning’s workout plan. I did lower body the other day, so today should be chest and shoulders. Back and arms next workout. But today do I have the strength to add another five pounds to the bar? Ten pounds? Twenty Five?

I pass the early risers on the way. The people who work early shifts, or maybe they’re coming home from overnight shifts. Truckers make their way to groceries and restaurants for deliveries. Any other place the traffic would be uncharacteristic, but this is Brooklyn. A few minutes later, I get to the gym. It’s already buzzing. Desk staff sitting in the front, people already inside on treadmills. These were the people who were serious about New Year’s resolutions years ago and stuck to them. Amazing physiques were the result.

I lock up my bike, take my water bottle and head inside, after a couple of “good mornings” to the desk, throwing my sweats into the locker, it’s time to warm up. While I’m on the rowing machine, I remind myself this is “leveling up.” This is how I chose to change my life for the better after the trials and difficulties I’ve faced over the past several years.

Man, I’ve been through a lot. A hell of a lot.

But I can’t let it beat me. My life is meant to be lived, not lamented. Ugh, my back is stiff, I’m thinking, as I bend over and stretch. These are the same stretches I learned in high school and have been using ever since. They eventually work. But enough of the mental drifting. Whatever the latest motivational podcast might be, or some other audio is playing on my phone. Time to pay attention.

I used to use the exercise machines, thinking they’d actually do something for me. They didn’t. They didn’t even tone me. Free weights turned out to be the better, and safer, option. At some point earlier this year, I figured I needed to become much more serious about fitness. I always enjoyed biking around the boroughs. A sunny Sunday might find me pedaling across the Manhattan Bridge, or shooting toward Coney Island or perhaps as far as Far Rockaway, or even the South Bronx. But I wasn’t satisfied with my body and I knew this wasn’t enough to get me where I wanted to be.

A couple of years ago on New Years, I decided to try James Swanwick’s “30-Day No Alcohol Challenge.” The month turned into two, which turned into three, then six, then a year. This Jan. 1 marks three years since I’ve had a drink. I don’t miss it. Then I get more serious about eating vegetables, eating lean meat with good fats, reducing sugar, and research, research, research.

Bottom line, this journey will be hard work. It means a lifestyle change, social and otherwise. And it’s a lonely road. Lots of people my age aren’t interested in committing to their health like this. But it hurts me to think of one of my childhood friends dying a decade ago of three different things preventable by cutting back on the nonsense; of another neighborhood homie just a year older than me dying of a stroke in his sleep last year; of two other good friends also having strokes; of a cousin I'm very close to having heart surgery after a very close call, of a sister dying of heart disease, my dad, my mom... Snap out of it, kid. Keep focused.

Anyway, if I can help it, and there’s no guarantee, I’m going to avoid all that and this is how. I’m lying on the bench, First set. Two 45-pound-plates, plus the 45-pound bar. I grunt through four sets, trying to remember to breathe, adding an extra 20 pounds for the last one. Bench presses are always the hardest, that’s why I do them first.

The process is repeated through sets of incline dumbbell presses, dips, cable pulls, cable presses, military presses and finally planks, which I hate. By this time, I’ve gone from podcasts to Sade (my all-time favorite and target of adoration) for the more strenuous lifts, to house music, the soundtrack of my 20s. The goal is to be done in 45 minutes, but I never am. The workout to me is more important than how fast or slow I go. But I do need to work on more efficiency.

Time to stretch again. Not sure if I’ll be sore later. Maybe I will, but if I am I need to get over it, I’ve got capoeira tomorrow and that demands a lot. But that’s not really what’s foremost in my mind. What’s standing out is that I got something accomplished today. Early. Before 7 a.m. Testosterone spiking. The cold air outside the gym feels great. Daylight now fills the sky and I look at people headed toward the subway starting their day, which is for me is feeling 10X -- I know, I know. It’s a momentary rush. When I get home, I’ll boil an egg and make myself a kale, beet, berry banana smoothie for breakfast. I’ve sweated out a ton of water and minerals, so I need to replenish them.

Living this way has taken at least 10 pounds off me over the past few months. Pounds that would have multiplied later and cost me dearly, I’m convinced. I’ve cured several ailments before I even got them. Take that insurance companies!

In my bedroom I strip my sweaty sweats off and look at my body. I’m giving myself mixed grades. My chest and shoulders are developing well, but my belly needs to shed more pounds. Thighs need more work, triceps looking good. It’s a daily self-critique. It’s actually fun.

Okay enough, time to hit the shower and make my day whatever it’s going to be. I don’t know that part, but I feel more confident about finding out. If it’s great, I’ll absorb it. If it isn’t, there’s always the next workout. Does this turn me into a gym rat?

Anyway, my body isn’t where it should be yet, but it certainly isn’t where it could have been. Maybe the tough times I’ve faced really came along to force me to take better care of myself. Fitness is definitely a great mental health tool. It’s given me a goal to set for myself. It’s changed my reason for getting up from shuffling to an employer that only sees me as an expendable number; from worrying about my fate for the next 24 hours; from concern about how I look to everyone else, to the main reason I should have been getting up in the first place: Me.