How I became a MUSCLEMAN
I TRY TO DEAL WITH my advancing years with an attitude of amused resignation. At 53, there’s little I can do about my craggy face, which bears all the signs of a life well-lived. And I have to laugh one day when a twentysomething colleague asks, “What colour was your hair before?”
“Before what?” I reply, watching him redden and shift in his seat as he realises he may have hit a raw nerve. “Before I went grey? Or before I went bald?”
I’ve been a gym-goer for years, but even so, everything’s slowly heading south. I feel a bit paunchy, a bit man-booby. Is it downhill all the way from here? Not yet, I decide. Not if I can help it. I need a new challenge.
Many guys in the throes of a mid-life crisis take up running or cycling. But weightlifting’s always been my first love. Why not take it to a new level?
It’s mid-2018. I give myself one mofo of a goal: in a year’s time I will strip down, step out on stage and show the world what I’m made of. Oh, and I’ll try not to make myself a laughing stock in the process.
“You’ll need a trainer,” my partner says when I announce my decision.
I’m wary, though. I’ve had a couple of trainers who didn’t take into account my needs as an older guy. Then there was the one who tried to coax me into
