From 105 Pounds to a Pull‑Up at 40

He stood across the street from that studio for twelve minutes before he first walked in.

He smoked a cigarette. Through the window he watched a bald man bench‑pressing, sweat darkening a patch on his back when he sat up. He stubbed out the cigarette, didn’t cross, and turned away.

The next day he came back. This time he went in.

The trainer asked if he had ever trained before.

He said no.

The trainer asked why he wanted to start.

He paused, then said, "Too skinny."

The trainer had him step on a body fat scale. 178 cm, 53.4 kg. The BMI reading flashed 16.7. On his medical checkup report, the words "underweight" had been bolded — he always wanted to tear that page off.

The trainer glanced at the number, handed the sheet back, and said, "Eat."

He asked, "And training?"

The trainer said, "Eat first. If you don't eat enough, training is wasted."

That year he was thirty‑seven.

Later, recalling that day, he said it felt like seeing a doctor. The doctor didn't say "You're fine" — he said "You need to take your medicine." Chicken breast was the medicine.

The first week, he weighed out 500 grams of chicken breast every day. Boiled it, sprinkled with salt, split into three meals. By the fourth day, the sight of that white meat made him nauseous. He asked the trainer if he could prepare it differently.

The trainer said yes. Then added, "If you throw up, eat it again."

He tried it with vinegar, with soy sauce, with Lao Gan Ma chili sauce. Lao Gan Ma worked best. Soon the empty jars piled up faster than the chicken breast.

The second month, he started bodyweight training. He bought a membership and followed videos at home. He couldn't do a full push‑up, so he did them on his knees. He cramped after ten crunches. He held onto a chair for squats.

During that time, he didn't tell anyone he was working out. When coworkers asked why he wasn't eating at the cafeteria, he said he brought his own lunch. In truth, his lunch box was just chicken breast and broccoli — cold, with a faint fishy smell. He ate it in the stairwell, cracking the window open a slit.

Six months in, he went to the gym next to his studio for the first time. Not to train, just to look. He didn't recognise most of the machines. The weight plates on the rack went from 2.5 to 25 kilos. He touched a 25‑kilo plate but didn't pick it up.

The trainer said to start with fixed machines — their paths were set, harder to get injured.

He asked, "Will people laugh at me?"

The trainer said, "Who's looking at you?"

He realised the trainer was right. Everyone in the gym was looking at themselves in the mirrors. No one was looking at him.

During that period, his go‑to moves were the seated chest press and the lat pulldown. The weights were so light that even the grannies nearby would frown. But he didn't care. His only standard was this: the next morning, did his chest or back feel sore? That soreness told him he had done the work.

In the third month, he first tried assisted pull‑ups. He looped a resistance band over the bar, knelt into it, and let the band take half his weight.

He couldn't pull up.

Not that he couldn't — he pulled up two centimetres and then stalled. His arms shook, his face reddened, and his chin never cleared the bar.

The trainer said, "Stop. We're done for today."

He asked for one more try.

The trainer said, "Try again tomorrow."

Later he came to understand the weight of those four words. A forty‑year‑old body is not like a twenty‑year‑old's. After one session, he needed two days to recover. It wasn't laziness — muscles and nerves both needed time. He had tried to push through, only to find his shoulder unable to lift the next day, his hand trembling when picking up chopsticks, even opening the car door with his left hand.

He learned to listen to his body. If his shoulder clicked, he stopped. If his lower back ached, he switched moves. If he hadn't slept enough, he didn't go.

The trainer told him, "You're building the muscle of two years from now."

He asked what that meant.

The trainer said, "What you train today grows forty‑eight hours later. It's not for the present you. So rushing is useless."

By the ninth month, his weight hit 62 kilograms. He had waited fifteen years for that number. In high school, he'd wanted to reach 120 jin (60 kg) and never managed it.

That day he posted on social media — no photo, just four characters: "One hundred twenty‑four" (in jin). Three likes.

In the thirteenth month, for the first time, he pulled his chin over the bar with his own strength.

No resistance band.

That day it was just him and the trainer in the studio. After a set of lat pulldowns, the trainer pointed to the bar beside them and said, "Give it a try."

He stood up, walked over, jumped up, and grabbed the bar. His palms were sweaty, a little slippery. He adjusted his grip and started pulling.

His arms shook — just like nine months ago.

But this time, he went up. First his forehead, then his eyes, then his nose. At one moment he felt like giving up — his shoulders and the back of his neck were burning — but then his chin cleared the bar.

He made it over.

He didn't let go. He just hung there. The trainer said nothing. After about five seconds, the trainer said, "Let go."

He released, dropped down, bent his knees, then crouched on the floor and began tying his shoelaces.

He tied them three times.

On the third time, he noticed his laces weren't loose. He stayed crouched, fingers pinching the laces, and didn't stand up.

That was the first moment, after thirteen months of training, that he felt this could work.

After that, his weight stabilised between 71 and 75 kilograms. It fluctuated depending on how well he ate — gain a bit when he ate more, lose a couple kilos when busy, then gain back.

His shirts went from S to M, then from M to L. The sleeves were no longer too short, and the shoulders started to feel snug. Once he went to a store to try on a suit, and the sales assistant said, "You have broad shoulders — this one fits you well." He stood in front of the mirror for a long time. He didn't say "I work out," nor "I couldn't have worn this before." He just nodded and bought it.

But when he took his shirt off, the skin on his belly was still loose. He could see a hint of abs, not defined. His wife said it looked good — he thought she was lying to him.

He asked the trainer when he'd get a six‑pack.

The trainer said, "You're forty. If you drop your body fat below twelve percent, you might see them, but you probably can't handle it. One is the hunger, the other is losing muscle."

He said, "Forget it, then."

He let it go. What he had wanted all along wasn't a six‑pack — it was to "not be skinny." Now he wasn't skinny anymore. When he went grocery shopping, the butcher lady called him "young man." He knew she called everyone that, but he didn't correct her.

This year he turned forty.

Last week he did pull‑ups again. He managed six — not perfect ones; on the last one he swung his legs for momentum. After coming down, he sat on a yoga mat drinking water, towel draped over his neck.

On the other side, the trainer was teaching a new client. The new guy was skinny too, saying he was too skinny. The trainer said the same thing: "Eat first. If you don't eat enough, training is wasted."

He heard it, but didn't smile. He screwed the cap back on his bottle, stood up, folded his towel, and placed it back on the rack.

As he passed the mirror by the studio entrance, he walked a couple steps past it, then stepped back and took a look at himself.

He didn't smile.

He didn't clench his fist either.

He just looked. Then he turned around and switched off the light.