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I had finally won my first overall title, the NPC Natural Colonial Cup, and it had only taken me 18 years. At that rate I could expect to nab my second in 2025, when I’d be a bit shy of my 56th birthday. I know they say that good things come to those who wait, but Halley’s Comet and Jesus could visit earth again before that happens.
Jeff and his son Jared had come to watch the show, and the teen competitors had motivated Jared, even though there were only two of them. He saw that his own build wasn’t so far off from their physiques. Jeff, who was 52, was quite interested in watching the masters-over-50 class. He found it hard to believe he was seeing men his own age with chiseled abs and clear muscle separations. They looked carved from granite, while he was currently looking more like a hunk of Play-Doh.
I didn’t get to talk with him much after the show, as I was rushed by a mad mob of congratulators. Okay, most of them were my friends and family, but still. Dana, one of my three older brothers, had made his competitive debut at the event and placed in both the masters-over-40 and novice divisions. This was a guy I never expected would ever eat healthfully and weight train on a regular basis, much less get onstage and flex in a little pair of trunks. I was damn proud of him.
In the days following the contest I ate anything that wasn’t moving, and even some things that were. I won’t get into the gory details of all the crap I shoveled down my gullet. Being on a strict contest diet and deprived of junk food for so long had made me crave things I didn’t even like. I could draw comparisons to sailors on shore leave or parochial school kids at a co-ed college for the first time, but you get the picture. It was an orgy of overeating, and very little of what I ate was remotely healthful.
I had planned on staying away from the gym for an entire week after the show, but by Wednesday I was back doing cardio. It was actually pretty silly when you thought about it. Was I really making a difference? The paltry number of calories I was burning compared to what I was eating was like trying to bail out a sinking ship with a shot glass.
As I was huffing away on an elliptical trainer, Jeff got on the machine next to me.
"Nice job Saturday, old man," he said.
"Thanks." I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant with that comment, and it’s possible that all the sugar I’d been eating was altering my brain chemistry. Anyone old enough to remember the so-called Twinkie defense knows that junk food can indeed make you crazy.
"I’m not that old, you know," I informed him. "In fact, my wife tells me I have the maturity level of a 12-year-old." Jeff looked puzzled by my comment, probably because it made no sense. He shook it off and motioned to a poster on the wall above the water fountain.
"I’m gonna get in shape. I’m doing the Biggest Loser contest." Jeff was referring to the weight-loss contest the gym put on several times a year, obviously borrowing the name and concept from the popular TV show. Contestants pay an entry fee, and the finalists split up the pot.
Now, I am all for people losing fat, improving their health and looking and feeling better, but I did have a real problem with the basic premise of a contest like that, and I had to share my disdain with Jeff.
"It’s a bunch of B.S.," I pronounced.
"What?" Jeff shot back. "I’m gonna lose 20 pounds—I’m telling you!"
"That’s great if it’s 20 pounds of fat," I said. "But these contests don’t give a damn about your body composition, only pounds lost on the scale. You could lose equal parts fat and muscle, which is what most people do when they embark on starvation diets, and they couldn’t care less."
I didn’t mention it, but I had a special grudge against those types of contests because my wife had entered the gym’s event twice and finished poorly. Actually, she had lost a significant amount of fat, but with a cleaner diet and harder training, she had also gained muscle. Showing very little difference on the scale, Janet appeared to have failed according to the parameters of the contest. I tried to explain the inherent flaw to Jeff.
"Problem is, if you gain muscle, which happens to weigh three times more than fat per cubic inch, you will not be a winner in the Biggest Loser. Or would you be? The stupid name gets me all confused."
"I’m not going to gain much muscle at my age," Jeff assured me. By my widening eyes he knew instantly I was about to argue that point. "I mean, you know, I’m over 50 now."
"Excuse me? Did you not see those guys at the contest a few days ago? Did they look like they were lacking muscle? And it was a tested contest, so don’t even try to tell me they were juiced up."
"Those guys have probably been training hard since they were kids," he said. "I’ve been out of shape too long. I would be happy to see just a little bit of definition."
"Oh, but you aim too low," I told him. "You were in great shape in your 20s and early 30s and had a lot more muscle than you do now. My brother Dana isn’t a whole lot younger than you, and he managed to lose 20 pounds of fat and build about 15 pounds of muscle in the months leading up to the contest. If he can do it, you sure as hell can. You just have to regain previously existing muscle mass, which is a lot easier than building it in the first place."
Jeff sighed and punched in a higher level of resistance on the machine he was using. "I’m not as young as I used to be."
"But you’re not as old as you’re going to be," I replied. I stole that from something I saw on a wall at T.G.I. Friday’s, always a source of pithy folk wisdom—and buffalo wings. "Look, you have to get it in your head that age is just a number, and you are as young as you feel. I hate to use myself as an example all the time [that was a lie—I rather enjoy it], but I’m turning 38 in a couple of days, and I am still getting better, physically. Now, I may not perform better in every way compared to my younger years.…"
"Who does?" agreed Jeff. "Thank God for Viagra."
"Cialis kicks ass over Viagra," I said. "Lasts for a couple days, so you don’t have to coordinate things too tightly, which rarely works out with women anyway. But what I was trying to say was, you can get in great shape again if you are willing to put out the effort and go for it. You can’t use your age as an excuse, or you’re doomed to failure."
Jeff mulled over that for a moment, wiping sweat off his brow with a towel.
"So, how do I keep track of my progress if the scale is useless?"
"I will measure your bodyfat once a week with my Parrillo Bodystat calipers and also have you weigh in," I explained. "That gives you a much better picture of whether you are losing, gaining or maintaining fat or muscle. We make adjustments to your diet, training and cardio based on the changes we see." Jeff nodded.
"But you have to admit, Ron," he goaded, "getting in shape isn’t as easy the older you get."
"No, it’s not. You’re right about that. You have to be stricter and more meticulous with your diet and supplements, and you usually have to do more cardio to account for a slower metabolism. But as long as you are training heavy and with intensity and feeding your body plenty of good nutrients, your metabolism will be that of a much younger person."
"Huh. You know, it’s premature to even mention this, but I was thinking of competing again just for the hell of it—to see if I can get into better shape than I did way back in the day." I clapped him on the back, nearly losing my balance on the elliptical runner as I did so.
"That’s the spirit, Jeff!" I told him. "I tell you what—we can even do the same contest together."
"Really?" Jeff’s eyes lit up.
"Why not? Keep your schedule clear for the summer of 2025. It’s on!"by Ron Harris
Jeff and his son Jared had come to watch the show, and the teen competitors had motivated Jared, even though there were only two of them. He saw that his own build wasn’t so far off from their physiques. Jeff, who was 52, was quite interested in watching the masters-over-50 class. He found it hard to believe he was seeing men his own age with chiseled abs and clear muscle separations. They looked carved from granite, while he was currently looking more like a hunk of Play-Doh.
I didn’t get to talk with him much after the show, as I was rushed by a mad mob of congratulators. Okay, most of them were my friends and family, but still. Dana, one of my three older brothers, had made his competitive debut at the event and placed in both the masters-over-40 and novice divisions. This was a guy I never expected would ever eat healthfully and weight train on a regular basis, much less get onstage and flex in a little pair of trunks. I was damn proud of him.
In the days following the contest I ate anything that wasn’t moving, and even some things that were. I won’t get into the gory details of all the crap I shoveled down my gullet. Being on a strict contest diet and deprived of junk food for so long had made me crave things I didn’t even like. I could draw comparisons to sailors on shore leave or parochial school kids at a co-ed college for the first time, but you get the picture. It was an orgy of overeating, and very little of what I ate was remotely healthful.
I had planned on staying away from the gym for an entire week after the show, but by Wednesday I was back doing cardio. It was actually pretty silly when you thought about it. Was I really making a difference? The paltry number of calories I was burning compared to what I was eating was like trying to bail out a sinking ship with a shot glass.
As I was huffing away on an elliptical trainer, Jeff got on the machine next to me.
"Nice job Saturday, old man," he said.
"Thanks." I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant with that comment, and it’s possible that all the sugar I’d been eating was altering my brain chemistry. Anyone old enough to remember the so-called Twinkie defense knows that junk food can indeed make you crazy.
"I’m not that old, you know," I informed him. "In fact, my wife tells me I have the maturity level of a 12-year-old." Jeff looked puzzled by my comment, probably because it made no sense. He shook it off and motioned to a poster on the wall above the water fountain.
"I’m gonna get in shape. I’m doing the Biggest Loser contest." Jeff was referring to the weight-loss contest the gym put on several times a year, obviously borrowing the name and concept from the popular TV show. Contestants pay an entry fee, and the finalists split up the pot.
Now, I am all for people losing fat, improving their health and looking and feeling better, but I did have a real problem with the basic premise of a contest like that, and I had to share my disdain with Jeff.
"It’s a bunch of B.S.," I pronounced.
"What?" Jeff shot back. "I’m gonna lose 20 pounds—I’m telling you!"
"That’s great if it’s 20 pounds of fat," I said. "But these contests don’t give a damn about your body composition, only pounds lost on the scale. You could lose equal parts fat and muscle, which is what most people do when they embark on starvation diets, and they couldn’t care less."
I didn’t mention it, but I had a special grudge against those types of contests because my wife had entered the gym’s event twice and finished poorly. Actually, she had lost a significant amount of fat, but with a cleaner diet and harder training, she had also gained muscle. Showing very little difference on the scale, Janet appeared to have failed according to the parameters of the contest. I tried to explain the inherent flaw to Jeff.
"Problem is, if you gain muscle, which happens to weigh three times more than fat per cubic inch, you will not be a winner in the Biggest Loser. Or would you be? The stupid name gets me all confused."
"I’m not going to gain much muscle at my age," Jeff assured me. By my widening eyes he knew instantly I was about to argue that point. "I mean, you know, I’m over 50 now."
"Excuse me? Did you not see those guys at the contest a few days ago? Did they look like they were lacking muscle? And it was a tested contest, so don’t even try to tell me they were juiced up."
"Those guys have probably been training hard since they were kids," he said. "I’ve been out of shape too long. I would be happy to see just a little bit of definition."
"Oh, but you aim too low," I told him. "You were in great shape in your 20s and early 30s and had a lot more muscle than you do now. My brother Dana isn’t a whole lot younger than you, and he managed to lose 20 pounds of fat and build about 15 pounds of muscle in the months leading up to the contest. If he can do it, you sure as hell can. You just have to regain previously existing muscle mass, which is a lot easier than building it in the first place."
Jeff sighed and punched in a higher level of resistance on the machine he was using. "I’m not as young as I used to be."
"But you’re not as old as you’re going to be," I replied. I stole that from something I saw on a wall at T.G.I. Friday’s, always a source of pithy folk wisdom—and buffalo wings. "Look, you have to get it in your head that age is just a number, and you are as young as you feel. I hate to use myself as an example all the time [that was a lie—I rather enjoy it], but I’m turning 38 in a couple of days, and I am still getting better, physically. Now, I may not perform better in every way compared to my younger years.…"
"Who does?" agreed Jeff. "Thank God for Viagra."
"Cialis kicks ass over Viagra," I said. "Lasts for a couple days, so you don’t have to coordinate things too tightly, which rarely works out with women anyway. But what I was trying to say was, you can get in great shape again if you are willing to put out the effort and go for it. You can’t use your age as an excuse, or you’re doomed to failure."
Jeff mulled over that for a moment, wiping sweat off his brow with a towel.
"So, how do I keep track of my progress if the scale is useless?"
"I will measure your bodyfat once a week with my Parrillo Bodystat calipers and also have you weigh in," I explained. "That gives you a much better picture of whether you are losing, gaining or maintaining fat or muscle. We make adjustments to your diet, training and cardio based on the changes we see." Jeff nodded.
"But you have to admit, Ron," he goaded, "getting in shape isn’t as easy the older you get."
"No, it’s not. You’re right about that. You have to be stricter and more meticulous with your diet and supplements, and you usually have to do more cardio to account for a slower metabolism. But as long as you are training heavy and with intensity and feeding your body plenty of good nutrients, your metabolism will be that of a much younger person."
"Huh. You know, it’s premature to even mention this, but I was thinking of competing again just for the hell of it—to see if I can get into better shape than I did way back in the day." I clapped him on the back, nearly losing my balance on the elliptical runner as I did so.
"That’s the spirit, Jeff!" I told him. "I tell you what—we can even do the same contest together."
"Really?" Jeff’s eyes lit up.
"Why not? Keep your schedule clear for the summer of 2025. It’s on!"by Ron Harris