TOM JACKSON
Ten years ago, when my son was 13 and my
daughter 11, I started doing exercises with
them most evenings before tea. Although
Rachel joined in enthusiastically, the project
was largely aimed at Sam who, in early
adolescence was – he won’t mind me saying- getting a little chubby. Nothing drastic, but
having been overweight as a teenager myself,
and suffered for it, I abandoned my usual
laissez-faire attitude and decided to get him
to slim down. Egged on by my wife – indeed,
the whole thing was her idea – I came up with
the concept of “Garden Challenge”, swiftly
abbreviated to GC.
The reason Sam won’t mind me mentioning
his puppy fat is that GC was a spectacular
success. In the decade since his first reluctant
press-up, he has, having long ago left the need
for external encouragement behind, developed
a spectacularly enviable physique. Before
lockdown he was assiduous in visiting the gym
and the lido. Since March, he’s been running
in the park and training, flagrantly shirtless in
all weathers, in the front garden. To the delight
of passers-by. These days, I have to stop him
doing too much rather than too little.
Overtraining is not, both children
recognised several years ago, an affliction to
which their dad is personally vulnerable. The
relatively fit, relatively energetic, relatively
youthful man of the early GC years has given
way, by degrees, into the overweight, slothful,
woe-is-me-how-did-I-get-so-old creaky codger
who says “Oof!’ when he gets out of a chair.
And “Ooh, me back” at regular intervals. And
who has all but given up the swimming,
cycling and calisthenics familiar from their
childhood. It bothers them. They reminisce
fondly about how I used to strut in my
smugglers on the beach and mortify them with
my suggestive pelvic stretches.
And so, a month ago, when I said that
I was going on a serious exercise binge to
improve the odds as and when Covid comes
calling, Sam and Rachel were eager to help.
“We need to bring back Garden Challenge!”
she announced. “Yeah,” her brother said, “and
the trainer’ll be on the other foot this time.”
So it is proving. You don’t realise what
indignity is until you’re huffing and puffing
through ten kneeling – kneeling, mind you - press-ups while your son, pupil turned teacher
turned tormentor, is banging out dozens
of proper press-ups ten feet away. Proper
press-ups, plus fancy ones too, with hand claps,
or his hands either forming a triangle or else
planted really wide apart to make it harder and
“properly engage your lats”. Or traps. Some bit
of me I haven’t seen in many years, at any rate.
To be fair, Sam is actually very encouraging,
very understanding. It’s not his fault if a
workout that destroys his dad does not even
begin to tax him. He might be a little more
subtle about announcing he’s off to “do a
proper session” by himself, though.
Rachel devised the programme, GC 2.0. She
wrote it up and laminated the sheets with her
personal lamination kit. Yep, just as Sam has
surpassed his mentor in the gym, Rachel has
taken my love of stationery and doubled down.
I call her Coach and do as I’m told
Coach Rachel’s routine is fairly benign – for
two fit youngsters in their early twenties. For
an unfit knee-clicker in his mid-fifties, even
the so-called warm-up is hard work. And not
just because it involves burpees, which I could
never take seriously, given that they sound
like an attempt to perfect flatulence technique.
My fellow athletes have accepted that their
student’s burpee involves collapsing to the
mat with a loud thwack, then levering his bulk
slowly upright. No marks for technique there,
but it’s early days, and besides, repeatedly
falling over is of itself surprisingly tiring
anyway, which is the idea.
If I don’t mind getting out of breath, my
loss of strength is a humiliation. We’ve got
two medicine balls in the kit cupboard – one is
2kg, the other 7kg. Having started out with the
heavier one, I had to swap with my daughter
after just a few lifts. Call me old-fashioned, but
that’s shameful.
Similarly, we do these side shuffles followed
by a flurry of jabs and a single uppercut into
mid-air. We’ve christened it pouf pouf pouf
douf! My three poufs and a douf would literally
not punch their way out of a paper bag. They
say the last thing a fighter loses is his punch.
I’ve for damn sure lost mine.
Or maybe just mislaid it.
The main thing is we’ve started and we
haven’t stopped. And it is getting – marginally,
infinitesimally – easier. I’ve agreed not to
smoke during the sessions, even though they
last upwards of 20 minutes. So that’s progress.
And we haven’t fallen out yet. And they cut me
some slack towards the end, when their “high
knees” is my shuffling up and down on the
spot gasping for oxygen.
How the world turns, eh? n[email protected]‘I’ve agreed not to
smoke during the
f itness sessions,
even though they
last 20 minutes.
So that’s progress’
Beta male
Robert Crampton
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