GOMAD or why train at all?

My fitness goal this year was to put on 5lbs of muscle. 

Easy right?

Well you'd think so.

Since the start of the year I've been doing four gym sessions a week and I've been eating like a pro. Chicken, turkey, tuna, sweet potato, brown rice - all the good stuff.

When I weighed myself at the start of the year I was 11st 5lbs, and when I weighed myself a month ago I was ... 11st 6lbs. 

Jesus Christ. All that hard work for what? One pound?

You could argue, that I was losing fat and gaining muscle, but this wasn't good enough for me. I decided to take the next step ... the GOMAD diet.

What the flip is a GOMAD?  It translates to a Gallon Of Milk A Day. That's 8 pints! 

What happened?

One month later I jumped on the scales and I was ... 12st 4lbs

That's nearly a whole stone. Obviously it's not a stone of pure muscle. It's likely a mixture of muscle, fat, and water, but with a bit of cutting this next month, the results should be a little clearer. 

One evening my girlfriend caught me struggling to hold down a particularly eggy mouthful of milk. She said 'why are you putting yourself through this? Just to look better?'

'No, not at all,' I said.

I'm not a vain person. I'm a balding twenty-six year old with a patchy beard and a poor sense of fashion. I'm not lifting for vanity, so why then?

I've come to realise that lifitng is a metaphor for life. 

If I'm not willing to go to the gym, not willing to lift some weights, eat some raw eggs, drink some milk, then I'm wasting my time. If I'm not willing to do these relatively simple things, then who the hell am I to want to do bigger things in life? I have to do this, to prove to myself that I can do more.

Rules Of The Gym - Trapped Beneath A Barbell

The other day I was reading through some muscle magazine's top ten gym tips. Tip number two was to have a gym partner.

I now know why.

I was trying a new routine. One that involved a standard bench press with a Smith Machine. I placed my bench next to one of the biggest dudes I've ever seen in my life. He didn't notice me. He was too busy benching plates the size of my being.

I placed my barbell onto the bench, climbed beneath it, and got to work.

First set of ten was difficult, but I did it.

The second set seemed almost impossible, but I managed it.

But in the third set, around the halfway point, I could feel my strength rapidly leaving me. My arms seemed to be getting weaker by the second. It felt like somebody had sat down on the barbell. I did my best to push up against it, but slowly and surely, the barbell worked its way down onto my chest.

So there I was, stuck.

The guy next to me was busy doing his thing - pressing his chest and making it look a little too easy. 

I did the only thing I could. I wriggled out, a centimetre at a time, working my way out from underneath it. It took a good couple of minutes to get my chest through the bar, and then I had to turn my head to the side to fit my chin out from beneath it.

I made it out and stood up. I checked around to see if anybody had noticed my struggle. If they had then they didn't make it obvious.

And the guy next to me? It could have been the sweat dripping down into his eyes, but I could've sworn he winked at me, as if to say 'don't worry kid, we've all been there.'

Rules Of The Gym - Take A Towel

I root through my bag. It's not there. I check again, but there's nothing.

How can this be?

How could I have not brought my towel?

I've definitely brought my swimming shorts. I know I have, because I'm already wearing them. They're pink with white stripes, and are prone to raising the eyebrows of the 'menlier' men of the gym. 

I've been looking forward to the swim all day. A few easy lengths, followed by a relaxing dip in the jacuzzi, and finishing up with a steam room sit-down.

There must be some other method of drying one's self without a towel? 

Before I can come up with anything, I'm already in the pool.

'I'll deal with it when I have to,' I say out loud, as I breaststroke past a man in speedos. 

I could just stay here - hide out in the steam room. In the morning I'll emerge from the room floating on a waft of steam like a newborn Benjamin Button - Small, wet, and wrinkly.

I decide against it. No man can withstand that much exposure to warm moisture, at least no mortal man anyway.

As I float around I notice Mr Speedo getting out. He grabs his towel from the rack. I think of asking him if I could borrow it, but then I see him thread the towel through his legs and start to ... floss his lower parts. 

All swum out, and with no good ideas, I decide to head back to the changing room. It's full of half-naked men showing off their towels and their dry skin. 

The hairdryers are out of order.

And there's only enough toilet paper for a single wipe. 

It's not looking good. 

But then I see it, salvation. I reach into my gym bag and pull out my sweaty gym clothes. They're not the most absorbent of materials, but they do the job. 

I pat myself down until I'm reasonably less drippy, albeit a tad stinkier.  I leave the gym that night with a newfound appreciation for towels.

God bless the person who thought them into existence. 

Rules Of The Gym - Spotting

INT. GYM.

I find myself in the gym, standing behind a man lifting two dumbbells. He doesn't know I'm there. He's struggling. 

What do I do?

I decide that I can't just leave him like this, so I decide to 'spot' him. 

Spotting is the art of helping someone lift a weight.

It's helping them to lift a little more than their limit. 

It's helping them to really feel the burn.

Feeling the burn is how you win at the gym. More burn means more win.

 'I'm totally winning right now.'

However, at the time I wasn't aware that you have to be asked to spot someone. You can't just sneak up behind them, and start lifting the weight with them.

Imagine if in the film Ghost, uninvited, Patrick Swayze had snuck up behind Demi Moore to fondle her messy clay pot.

 'Let me help you with that.'

Naturally the guy jumps a bit, puts the weights down, and awkwardly asks 'can I help you?'

'I was spotting you,' I tell him.

'Oh.'

Things are now just plain weird. I realise I'm in the wrong.

The rest of the gym goers are looking at us.

'I'm okay,' he says finally.

And I go back to my routine, red-faced.

The next time I see him, we're both in the changing rooms. 

I think about trying to explain myself, but there's something about the way he's avoiding eye contact, and rushing to change his clothes which makes me decide against it. 

Lesson learned.