Fitness, by Phillip Hoyle

I certainly am no fitness fanatic. It only takes a glance to know that. But there was a two-year period in my life when I went to the gym twice a week to exercise. I started at age 41 a couple of months after the Senior Minister of our congregation unexpectedly died at age 51. Like him I had some extra weight. I knew I was in for a lot of work dealing with a mourning congregation, an interim Senior Minister (turned out to be two of them, the first one who exuded negative assessment and power, the second one who had brain damage from an automobile accident), and the adjustments to the arrival of a new Senior Minister. A choir member suggested I join with her, my wife, and the church’s Administrative Assistant at a nearby gym for a twice-weekly noon-time Super Circuit. She thought we’d enjoy it.

Super Circuit combines aerobic with strength exercises. Each one-hour session began with warm-ups. Then the over-enthusiastic leader blew her whistle to begin the circuit. I’d walk to a near-by machine, set the weight, and do 12 or 15 reps working my abs, pecs, delts, lats, quads, or another muscle group. Finishing that I’d join in jogging, jumping rope, doing chin ups (I’m sure I could do one), walking on the treadmill, pedaling my way nowhere on a stationary bike, or some other option. The next whistle blow called us to the next station just counter-clock-wise to the first. In addition to the machines, the stations included a bench press, a place to do crunches, and other techniques of self-torture. The back and forth between stations and aerobics lasted 45 minutes. No stopping. When the last whistle blew, we’d gather back in the original assembly for stretches. Then it was off to the shower room. After that our little trio would drag ourselves about three blocks to Subway for vegetarian sandwiches and a Sprite. Numb, I’d return to work.

Did I get fit? Yes. After several months, about the same time my knees quit aching, I realized I could sing with an ease I had never before achieved. I reasoned it was the combination of aerobic (breath control) and strength (core development) that served me well.

Asking “Did I enjoy it?” seems appropriate. I didn’t lose any weight but I did feel fat turn into muscle. I was amused that I pressed more weight with my legs than either of the two younger buff athletic men in the class. Myrna and Maggie dropped out after a couple of months. I persisted two years during the interim and first months of the new Senior Minister. Then I made my escape, a story I’ve already told in this group.

When I moved to Albuquerque I located a gym near the church, but they had neither Super Circuit nor showers. Since my budget was already stretched I quit fitness training and eventually signed up for voice lessons.

When at age 51 I dropped out of polite society, I went to massage school. For the next fifteen years I did exercises like I had never experienced before. When I realized I had developed my biceps and triceps, I made my kids and grandkids feel them. Grandpa was becoming more fit than ever in his life, and I got paid for doing so. Now that was years ago. I’ll make no further comment except to use a phrase I learned from the Senior Minister whose death sent me to the gym. “Don’t throw a fit and fall in it.”

© 31 July 2017

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com