Last autumn I joined a gym. Not the ordinary sort of gym where people sit on the machines reading Facebook and do classes with excruciating names like Bums, Tums and Thighs (I have been a member of one of those for decades) but a proper Heavy Weights Gym round the back of a rugby club where there isn’t a cross trainer in sight and there are a lot of incredibly strong, fierce people lifting things that by rights should only be liftable with a forklift truck.
This was an incredibly humbling experience for me. I thought I was reasonably strong, after all I love a bit of Les Mills and have a living room piled with dumbbells and kettlebells, and I can hold a plank for longer than it takes for me to get bored of holding a plank. On trying to actually lift something that was actually properly heavy, particularly if it was a leg related move, I found I was a complete weakling. And not only did I discover I was a weakling, I discovered that there was an entire world of lifting that I knew nothing about.
I may not be a very good runner (though I am starting to consider myself average, did I mention that?) but it’s a world I feel very comfortable in. Intervals, LSR, taper, tempo, chip time, overpronating, tendonitis… I know all the lingo, the routines, I live the life. Walking into the gym was like walking into a parallel universe where people speak a language that is very similar to my own yet also very different. On one of my first visits, I heard the others discussing PBs, but couldn’t work out what length of race they were talking about. Then it dawned on me, they were talking about lifting PBs! They go to competitions just like runners go to races, and although only the “winners” get medals whereas us runners get one just for turning up, just like us they seem most bothered about competing against themselves.
The equipment is another thing that I had to get used to. As a clumsy person, getting heavy bits of metal out, assembling them into something liftable and not tripping over someone else’s heavy bits of metal or getting in their way did not come easy. In fact this was possibly more of a workout than the actual lifting at first. My maths has also improved no end from calculating the weight of various brightly coloured bits of metal and percentages of one rep maxes etc. I didn’t even know what a one rep max was this time last year so I guess I’ve learned something.
I found that I had to completely rethink my mindset. The mindset in running is that you must keep going at all costs (barring serious medical episodes or catastrophic events of course). It is better to slow down than to stop and if you must stop you must immediately start again. Rest is for after the end. Relatedly you must pace yourself because a great first half means fuck all if you end up walking the second half. A DNF is a disaster and to be avoided at all costs. Lifters, however, rest between sets, even standing around doing NOTHING for a whole minute or two. They don’t seem to think about pacing themselves, they just give it all they have and keep doing it until they fail. And failing isn’t “failing” like a DNF is a failure. It’s an actual thing, to be expected and part of the training. They even practice fails!
A lot of people say that when they take up lifting they make a lot of progress very quickly, but I don’t think that has been true for me. That’s probably not a surprise, I’ve never made progress at anything physical quickly. (209 parkruns before my first sub 30, for example). But I have made progress, particularly in the bench press and deadlift, and more importantly I’ve come to enjoy it as an activity in its own right, which is just as well as it’s quite a commitment in time and money and I’m not sure I would have continued if it were merely to support my running. The gym I go to (better give it a plug – it’s Strength Ambassadors) – is female-led and the trainers are really passionate about helping people achieve their goals, and that applies equally to someone like me struggling with the beginner bar and the formidable people lifting the weight of a baby elephant. The squat is my nemesis, probably because it involves that fatal combination of balance and leg strength. This morning I was starting to get into a right strop with myself because I was trying to squat to a new depth (not particularly deep) with a feather-light bar and kept falling on my arse while everyone around me was squatting the weight of my entire body twice as deep without any issues. “Why can’t I do the things other people do?” I muttered to myself, on the verge of having a tantrum and throwing the stupid bar out the window (it really was light enough to throw). Immediately I was surrounded by the lovely lifters with soothing words so I pulled myself together. As I did, I thought of my friend Eleanor who has myeloma and is currently not able to do anything much. “Eleanor would love to be in this gym failing to squat a tiny bar and falling flat on her arse” I told myself. I’m not sure that was true, I think Eleanor would rather be on holiday going round an art museum or running up a mountain but she’d like to have the option at least, but the thought was enough, and I managed five very feeble wonky puny squats at the new lower depth before it was time to go home.
7:07 