Aegis of Action

The sun again rises and the motion of the world churns forward. Eating and commuting and working. A populace moving from point to point, barely alive, barely a life. Possessed of a will no longer their own and flown with mediocrity, awash in the sluice of time and drifting further from a glittering shore. Glowing boxes broadcast opinions to sullen ears, unimportant information repeated on the hour as divisions are exaggerated and terrors imagined. The sun sets and night falls. A small respite, but the risen moon casts the shadows of the day to come. Worry and doubt redouble their strength, brethren born of a misery shared by the sleepless staring at dark ceilings. Minutes tick away until yet again the sun sets into motion a distasteful plan, immortal and unbreakable. Were there but some great magic, some plan to allay the morass.

And there is.

The first time I hoisted a weight in earnest, it was not for myself. To curry favor was my intent. When all else seemed lost in life, a facet of control was sought. To what extent could one improve oneself immediately without a sudden cascade of knowledge or an embarrassment of riches? To sculpt the body was the answer. And so began a journey. Within a few weeks of weightlifting, I came to a great realization: I was no longer lifting for someone else. I now lifted for myself; the opinions of others be damned. I began to learn about form, and I made plans. I experimented with different combinations of exercises and persevered. Daily would I check the scale and mirror for their slow telegraphing of my progress. Eventually, progress came; and with it, much more.

The longer I continued to work out, the more I craved it. It became a healthy addiction. More trivial things became increasingly unimportant. My initial routine consisted of a fully body workout, three times a week. As I became more knowledgeable, I began to split up my workouts by body part, thereby increasing effectiveness. Combining opposing muscle groups such as back and chest or biceps and triceps on one day soon followed. Eventually, I became friends with one of the gym’s trainers. We started to work out together as she needed a lifting partner. Progress started to come faster now. New plans of attack were researched online, and bodybuilding forums scavenged daily for advice and opinions on everything from exercises to meals and supplementation. I kept track of our weekly progress with spreadsheets. Our workouts later expanded to include historical European sword fighting on the days we were not lifting. In the midst of all this, I gained a lifelong friend.

We kept lifting for many years, with a few substantial breaks in between. Eventually, life became too busy, and my partner could no longer make it to our gym. I continued to lift solo, doing fairly well, but lagging on those lifts where having a partner is key to being able to push through to the next level. There were a group of regulars in the gym I had always noticed when lifting with my partner. One day, they invited to me join them, and thus the next chapter in my lifting life began.

My new partners had a different lifting sequence during the week than I, so I conformed to theirs, which was easy enough to do. Quickly, I found some of my lifts start to improve with new methodologies and the added energy that comes with working within a group. In 2016 when I suffered an ACL tear away from the gym, it was my band of brothers who helped me while I rehabbed, handing me weights to save me from excessive wear and tear. Ultimately, it was also they who got me back into the squat rack for the first time to lift heavy again, a huge milestone after surgery. Not a week has gone by that we have not come together in some number to continue our pursuits.

When the gym closed for several months during the onset of Covid, we were in somewhat of a panic. That very last day, which fell on St. Patrick’s Day, I worked out for four hours, trying to get in everything I could that I may not have access to after the shutdown. A day later, one of our number came up with a plan to work out in his garage. I gathered what little equipment I had accumulated years ago; a paltry amount of weight compared to what we were capable of at this point. We draped rubber workout bands over garage beams, did various angles of pushups on buckets, and used two ladders as a makeshift squat rack. Desperate for a weight sled, we even pushed a pickup truck up and down the alley for our first leg day. Here and there, we’d find other pieces of equipment to add to our makeshift arsenal or discover a new way to do something. We rediscovered basic techniques and in some ways were better for it.

As the cool Spring slowly faded to early Summer, we were challenged with the increasing heat, magnified by the garage walls. Nevertheless, we trained. It was a need we all shared. I journaled our exploits day by day, giving an added purpose to our work and to memorialize this odd time in our lives. Looking back at the entries today makes me glad I committed our tales to a medium beyond our memories. After 78 days, our time in the garage was finally done. The gym would open once again. We were elated to finally go home, but part of me will always miss what we had accomplished with the little we had.

The gym is a refuge. Under its roof is every race, creed, body type, and political affiliation. Perhaps in an online forum, anonymous, we would act differently as is so common these days. Within those walls however, we greet each other as friends, all part of a larger gym family, some of whom may only ever see each other there in pursuit of the same goal. There really is no place like it and I could not imagine life without it. It has given me pride, and it has given me hope. It continues to give me health, both physically and mentally. It grants me physical strength. It has given me a group of friends I shall consider brothers and sisters for all of my days. It has given me far more than I could ever have given it. It keeps me whole.

It is my aegis of action.