Fifty shades of ‘aray’: Gym life after 50

My joints began to groan from the piling kilos. In later years, I required knee surgery after a badminton-related injury. When COVID-19 wreaked havoc across the globe, the higher threat of being infected because of my comorbidities made me paranoid as hell.

It was compounded by a case of herniated disc that left me wondering if I could walk again. A combination of answered prayers and good fortune made me good as new. Well, probably as new as a freshly painted automobile in a used-car dealership.

Recently, intermittent fasting and regular exercise produced benefits that include improved stamina and overall health, and fitting into clothes that are a couple sizes smaller. But even as the fat melted away, similar to bacon strips that shrink when fried, something else became painfully apparent: loose skin that defies gravity and flaccid muscles that sway with the slightest movement.

So, with a mix of determination and trepidation, I decided it was time to hit the gym and firm things up.

It wasn’t my first rodeo, so to speak, but I haven’t done any strength training post-pandemic. The gym I visited had that familiar rank smell of sweat and mildew competing with the disinfectant and alcohol. The sights and sounds were also as I remember: grunts of exertion and triumph, clanging dumbbells, kettlebells and barbell plates, and sliding steel cables; and the ubiquitous presence of uniformed personal trainers hovering like bootcamp sergeants whipping trainees into shape.

Loud music competed with the noise even as nearly all individuals grooved to personalized playlists using earbuds, AirPods, headphones, or bone conductors. A few wore their key fobs around their necks like badges of honor, oblivious of the risk of strangulation they posed. In the old days, we simply knocked on the door, signed a logbook, and thanked our lucky stars when the house music matched our rhythm. Welcome to the world of 21st-century workouts!

Familiarity notwithstanding, it felt like I had stepped into another dimension. I was the odd man out in this merry, colorful bunch of grownup children. If my hunch is right, they’re mostly millennials; Gen Zs and Alphas would be busy with their games or school assignments.

I found myself amid a sea of young professionals clad in sleek, moisture-wicking apparel. And the accessories! I thought I was hip enough with my Apple Watch, but these folks also had extra phones in their waterproof armbands, fitness trackers, wireless mics, water bottles as heavy as dumbbells, microfiber towels, neon shoes with secret pockets, and some personal yoga mats.

Floor-to-ceiling wall mirrors allowed me to observe others without appearing like a voyeur. I spotted sweaty guys admiring their chiseled arms, flexing and relaxing them as if making sure they wouldn’t disappear overnight; others straining to bench-press 80 kilos while trusting that their spotters would be there to assist; and flirty ones were making sure the ladies saw them lifting heavy weights effortlessly and “innocently” lifting their shirts to display six-pack abs. Obviously, men never change throughout generations.

At the cardio area, petite women were spinning as if they were training for the Tour de France, while one or two ran up the stair machine in an amazing race to the top of an imaginary hill. I swear, if that gym had an indoor rock-climbing setup, women would be crawling all over it like ants on a lump of sugar. The weaker sex they definitely aren’t.

My admiration for these young people quickly turned into a mental note to never attempt to show off my puny capabilities. So, I opted to stick to the tried and tested, and commenced my post-stretching workout with the light and right, my eyes filled with the aspiration of building up muscles in the months to come, or at least until my patience and resolve ran out.

My bad back and knees were like a pair of Damocles’ swords dangling over my consciousness, holding me back from testing my limits. Slow and steady, my father always advised when he was teaching me how to drive, a tenet that should be applied to everything else in life. Those who have been my passengers will surely beg to differ.

I did remember that for any workout, a proper warmup is necessary, so I began with the treadmill. I avoided sitting beside those braided beasts on stationary bikes but watching my neighbors sprint on a +6 incline while I ambled along made me feel like a tortoise among hares. I just kept telling myself that I did the Camino de Santiago, as if it’s an Olympic feat. And hey, the tortoise ended up victorious, after all.

As the minutes passed by agonizingly slow, I activated muscles I didn’t even know I had. Still, I soldiered on, even if I had to cheat on some sets just to complete the reps.

The free weights were an entirely different thing. I grabbed the lightest dumbbells that didn’t look too small for my hands. Nearby, a young woman was effortlessly hoisting weights that must have been heavier than her. The image of Hidilyn Diaz plus the word “respect” flashed in my mind. I decided to ignore the little voice in my head whispering that I should have stayed home and watched my K-drama shows instead of punishing myself for past excesses.

As I worked through the routine I knew—for sure, incongruous with my current age and level of fitness—couldn’t help but notice and rue the stark contrast between the younger and the present me.

I was deluding myself thinking I still possessed the strength, fluidity and grace that I enjoyed in my early 20s, when I had decent upper-body strength.

Nowadays, my muscles respond to resistance like the service at NAIA Terminal 3—dismally sluggish. As for stamina, endurance sports haven’t necessarily been my thing; hence, my “slow but sure” mantra.

I can’t simply cool down for 20 minutes on the elliptical machine then prance out of the gym to join friends for dinner. Most likely, I’d crawl back home with wobbly knees, bathe in liniment, and hope that I could rise in the morning to go to work.

I learned a new term a few days later: DOMS, or delayed onset muscle soreness (not dirty old man syndrome), which left my arms feeling lifeless.

I arrived at the sad realization that older bodies maintain a different schedule. So far, I have found no need for pain meds and, despite the aches, I’d like to believe that my muscles are finally firming up, even as my loose belly skin is like a recalcitrant brat refusing to cooperate. But more than the physical transformation, overcoming the challenge and a sense of achievement keep me going. Surprisingly, I’m actually looking forward to my next gym session.