"My fear of getting more sick has overridden my fear of using the gym," writes Rob Temple. Photo / 123RF
OPINION
After being diagnosed with diabetes and hypertension, I knew it was time to was time to shake off my ‘gymhibition’ and get fit.
“I’m afraid your HbA1c blood test indicates you’ve gone from prediabetic to actually diabetic,” says the nurse. “Oh dear,” I reply, looking at my worried wife, Sumin, then back to the nurse, “that’s not good, is it?”
“How’s your diet?” she asks. I’ve just returned from a month visiting family in South Korea, where I discovered the best doughnuts, fat pink-icing cream-filled things which, despite Sumin’s concerns, I scoffed for breakfast with buckets of vanilla latte. “Yeah, my diet’s pretty good” I reply. “OK,” she says gently. “Because we have talked about your weight before, haven’t we?” Indeed, we have. For the past year or so, I’ve regularly promised to lose some of my substantial, technically obese, body mass. I’m hoping that upping my daily step count of late will have made a little dent in those pounds.
“Do you want to hop on the scales?” No, I think, as I slip off my shoes and place my wallet, phone and keys on the table, saying “every little helps!” as I do. Rather than hopping on, I creep gingerly on to the scales in a bid to make them go easy on me, and peer over my belly at the reading below: 16st 9lb (107kg). Oops.
I’m prescribed Metformin, the drug commonly used to help control Type 2 diabetes. Then the nurse takes my blood pressure. It is 124/99. “OK, that’s a little high,” she warns, in that understated British way, like calling a hurricane “a bit windy”. “But don’t worry, I’ll do it again.” This time, the reading’s even higher. “Oh dear,” I say. I’m asked to do some average readings over a week, where my readings remain worryingly high, so I’m diagnosed with hypertension and prescribed another daily pill called Ramipril.
“Look, you’re still young,” the nurse reassures me. I’ll be 40 by the end of the year, if I live that long. “You’ve got a chance to reverse things. Do you do any vigorous exercise?” “Not really,” I say, but I agree that it might be worth looking into as a matter of some urgency. “We can do it together,” says Sumin.
“Wow, I’ll call you Super Patient!” the nurse says, as she reports my blood sugar has plummeted from literally dizzying highs of 67 mmol/mol (the diagnostic cut-off point is currently 48 mmol/mol) to 37 mmol/mol, which is completely normal. My blood pressure is now 110/74, which is categorised as ideal. Oh, and just to really show off, I’ve shed the stone I was advised to initially lose. I look to Sumin, all smiles today, and back to the nurse, and say “that’s good, isn’t it?” “It’s amazing,” she replies. “We’ll reduce the Metformin for now and if your blood sugar is still controlled in three months, we’ll be able to take you off it.” She asks me how I’ve managed to turn things around so quickly, and I’m delighted to tell her.
The quite distressing diabetes and hypertension diagnoses I’ve just been dealt give me the shove I need to do something about my diet and fitness. For starters (mmm, starters, duck liver pate with brioche toast just came to mind) I do what seems obvious, and what the nurse advises: I make my portions a bit smaller and try to go easy on the carbs. I cut out the doughnuts and most of the sugary treats and try to shun processed foods as much as my willpower will allow. I have a basic understanding of what’s good for me and what’s not, so I tell myself to employ a bit of discipline and common sense about things. I don’t start delving into macrobiotics or weighing out protein powder, I just try my best to swap the packet of Monster Munch for a banana.
But on the fitness side of things, I have no idea where to start, what exercises to do (what sports do I even like? Formula 1? Pole vault?) or where to do them. Two stressful decades at a desk, hunched over like Gollum, have rendered me stiff and clueless about all things active.
Sumin immediately looks to start solving the problem, rather than dwelling on it, because that’s what she does. She suggests we visit the Cambridge Country Club near a village called Bourn; a very swish building packed full of everything one needs to get fit and well, with a beautiful golf course on the side for good measure.
I send an email. “Hello, can you make me fit, please?” Certainly, they say, come on down.
We hastily acquire gym clothes and drive to meet David Macdonald, operations manager of the club, and Simon Dykes, a personal trainer with expertise in helping a more mature demographic of clients who suffer with lower back pain (me), postural issues (me) and joint problems (Sumin, and me). David tells us studies show working out with a partner can really boost the chances of sticking to a fitness plan, while Simon asks what experience we have with strength training.
I’ve actually read, many times, that strength training is a key component to fitness. I just didn’t want to believe it, for the following reasons:
Anything involving weights looks hard and far too professional, surely there’s an easier way?
Point six is my main obstacle. I’ve had bad gym experiences. During a gym induction in London a decade ago, a trainer plonked me on a treadmill and said, “Don’t stop until I come back.” He waltzed off and I never saw him again. I presume he just went home. To think, I could still be on that treadmill to this day if I didn’t have the sense to leave and never go back. So, when Simon says his plans for Sumin and I would involve using the club’s gym, I feel apprehensive. I worry I won’t know what to do, that I’ll look like an imposter.
“Everyone in the gym is doing their own workout for their own goals,” Simon tells us. “And getting bulky from weights is a misconception, unless you’re training for a Strongman competition. Cardio is still important,” he continues, “but a lot of gyms are moving to having fewer cardio machines and more strength and functional equipment.”
Putting our trust in Simon, we start coming three times a week. He warns us not to look at the scales too often as it’s better to go by the mirror. “When scale weight fluctuates, your mood can drop, and you can lose your motivation. BMI doesn’t give a fair picture.”
In life I very rarely miss an appointment, I’ve never missed a work deadline and I HATE to be late, so having a date booked in the diary to train with a PT is all the motivation I need to attend the gym. We book in two sessions a week with Simon, each an hour, usually on a Tuesday and a Thursday, and we’re given a workout to come in and complete solo at the weekend. Seeing as we report back to Simon about the solo session, we feel we can’t miss that either.
Left to my own devices, I tend to gravitate towards exercises that involve pulling (maybe I was a working dog in my former life) and I especially love rowing, perhaps because I get to sit down, but Simon makes sure our training is focused on all our muscles, even ones I never knew I had (like triceps). The dreaded leg day nearly kills me the first time we do it (note: and every time after). This is where a PT comes in handy. Without Simon pushing me along, I probably wouldn’t leap at the chance to step up and down on a very high box with dumbbells on my shoulders.
Another big motivator is fear. I simply have to do something, and do something now, about my health. My fear of getting more sick has overridden my fear of using the gym. It’s a now or never moment, which I had before when I finally quit alcohol 2.5 years ago. I’d been in and out of hospital and treatment programmes and one day, I thought “I’m running out of chances” – doctors had gone from giving me a year to live to giving me weeks – and I stopped drinking.
This was another of those crossroads. Another motivator is encouragement and also a bit of good old vanity. When Sumin says after a fortnight of training “your face is definitely thinner” I feel a glow. After a few weeks, I start to feel confident with the equipment and my imposter syndrome shrinks away. I very quickly develop a mindset of “don’t think, just do”. Accountability, fear, vanity and encouragement – a very powerful four horsemen.
For the first six weeks, we’re in a conditioning phase, focusing on form and technique, after which the weight level starts to increase. The key date is 12 weeks, we’re told, when we’ll start to notice weight loss and see muscles develop (muscles, eh? I’ve never had those before). By four to six months, Simon assures us that we’ll start to see great results. “It’s about consistency and patience,” he says, something of which Sumin has a lot and I have little. “We want to develop a lifetime habit. Once you start releasing those endorphins and feeling good about yourself, it becomes self-perpetuating.”
“I can’t feel my arms, Simon.” I’m rounding off my third hour-long workout of the week, in my 12th week of training, with sets of press ups. I’ve just collapsed after the second set. “I can’t do any more.” “OK,” replies Simon, “rest for an extra 10 seconds… 3, 2, 1...”
I’m back into press ups (on the floor, I might add, three months ago I struggled doing them against a wall) making alarming sounds. The fast rate at which strength, and energy grew – after a couple of weeks – surprised me. It’s been hard, don’t get me wrong, but Sumin and I wish we’d started sooner.
Aside from my miraculous NHS test results, in the club’s clinic we discover we’ve both lost body fat, increased muscle mass, have higher resting metabolisms and have reduced our levels of the dreaded visceral fat (the dangerous inner chub). We’re feeling perkier and brighter, too – more awake in the day and more asleep through the night. And most remarkably, we look forward to going to the gym. It helps that this gym has lovely views over the Cambridgeshire countryside.
Sumin and I working out at the same time together hasn’t been as successful as we’d hoped. Our working schedules don’t align so it’s tricky, but we enjoy encouraging each other regardless. “I’m just off to the gym,” feels great to say. I especially feel super smug on Sundays when I go off to the club’s spinning class at 7am. Not long ago, I’d consider 7am too early to even contemplate sitting on the sofa with a bacon sandwich.
Again, I was nervous beforehand but there’s very little to get wrong – I just keep pedalling and follow instructor Sam White’s guidance. The buzz after 40 minutes of stationary hills and sprints (and so much sweating!) lasts till lunchtime. “An early workout is good, those endorphins keep releasing throughout the day,” says Simon. “So, you must feel high all the time?” I suggest. “Yeah… pretty much,” he says, with a relaxed smile, before making me do more press ups.
Changing my diet, which I’m told is half the battle, is a work in progress. Personal training at a health club is perfect for me, because all I have to do is turn up and do as I’m told. There’s a gym, spinning room, pool, Pilates/yoga studio, physio and medical centre, classes, golf, a bar (great pizzas, I’m, ahem, told) and even a barber, all under one roof. It’s pretty tempting to sell the house and just live here.
But eating is largely down to me. Sumin is a salad lover but I’m a “you only live once!” type of consumer, which historically has always threatened to shorten my lifespan. Plus, when I quit alcohol, I developed a constant “you deserve some kind of treat” mindset which, now I exercise, has gone into overdrive. I’m trying to maintain a generally healthy diet (while still enjoying the odd bit of cake), and I’ve tried to find a carb/protein/fat balance, but I still have room for improvement. But then, don’t we all?
Safe to say, Sumin and I are both hooked. I hope to be able to report back in the new year, as I continue to train. Perhaps by then I’ll be able to do three sets of press ups without grunting quite so much. I hope the nurse and my PT will be even happier with me, teacher’s pet that I am.
Most of all, I hope Sumin no longer worries about losing me to a heart attack in my 40s (which is what happened to my grandfather). This past 12 weeks of dedicated training has brought us both closer together. And it’s only taken a couple of hours a week. I’ve still a long way – a lifetime, apparently – to go.
In fact, as I write this, slumped at my desk with terrible posture despite knowing better, I’m eating a lovely scone with jam and cream. I’m only human, after all, but now hopefully one that’ll last a little bit longer.
New York Times: Our are devices distancing us from real connections?