Becoming Buff

Now that I’ve broken three bones in my foot, not only must I take taxis everywhere but I’ve also had to join the local gym.   Normally I walk for forty minutes a day, mostly in Prospect Park.  But when any length of time elapses without my walking daily, my blood pressure rises.  It’s clear that it will be several months at least before I can dispense with my soft cast and walk again freely.  My podiatrist suggested that in the mean time I try using a stationary bicycle.  The other day I slowly hobbled to the gym around the corner and mounted one of its bikes. Yes!  I could operate it without pain.  It will be an effective if charmless substitute for walking.

While pedaling away, I noticed a row of machines that exercise both the arms and the legs seemingly without more pressure on your feet than required by a stationary bicycle.  I’ll try them next.  And then, once I dismounted, I saw the free weights.  Why not try those as well?  My wife, who swims there three times a week, suggested I call the gym’s trainer, who will introduce me to the various machines, show me how to work them, and recommend an exercise routine for me. 

Fantasies of a buff physique flit through my mind.  It’s never too late, is it?  Well, it probably is.  A friend recently chastised me for going on a zip line in Alaska.  I should remember my age, she said.  No doubt she’s right.  So I promise not to be a body builder or to transform myself from a 90-pound weakling to the muscular hero promised by Charles Atlas.   Still, there’s no harm in improving my strength and maintaining my cardiovascular fitness.  After six months, just try kicking sand in my face!

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