Avoid Pain
You did it—took charge of your fitness life by tackling a basic workout a few times. Admit it feels good to get the blood pumping a little, and to forge positive habits. How do you eat a whale? Countless tiny bites.
Papa was a hobgoblin; Momma was a swine—meet this week’s foe, the fearsome “hoggoblin,” brain-child of supreme talent Marlene Andersson. See her portfolio here.
If you want to truly change your body, you will need to challenge yourself with increasingly intense and consistent workouts. You can’t deadlift a car the first time you go to the gym, nor can you strap on a pair of skates and immediately leap a triple axel. Appreciate the level you have, aim for a few workouts a week, and set reasonable goals that won’t lead to injury—on the quest you will contend with chafes, bruises, soreness, even the occasional minor sprain, as your muscles grow and your hands toughen into shoe leather. Armour yourself against serious injury, the kind that sets your training back weeks or even months, as you gain experience; and hammer your willpower into a sword that can pierce thorny dragon scales.
You stumble from the cellar into the harsh light of the sun. Green goblin blood is splattered across your wooden sword and up to your elbow. No one in the village notices much, most of them are too preoccupied with milling wheat. Greybeard the Elder reaches into his robe and pulls out a small pouch; it lands in your outstretched hand with a clink.
“Fair work, warrior, but your quest is only beginning. This copper will get you started.” The cheeky old man winks, then his face snaps back into respectability.
You pour the copper into your hand. Eight pieces! That’s barely enough for a sandwich!
The coins are sharp in your balled fist as you trudge through the village, past four mills and men with sweat-stained armpits. For once you barely stop to drool at the chimera pelts, ruby sword hilts, and world-weariness of the Prince’s guard. When you pass your father’s eggplant plot, you note without surprise the eggplants are as empty and withered as the wineskins Dad heaps in the living room.
You grit your teeth; somehow this too will be your fault.
In this post, I distinguish “good” pain from bad pain, and promote positive habits like warm-ups and stretching. I’ve also got a few things to say about that cliché, NO PAIN NO GAIN, which has been inspiring folks since the 1980’s to rack up maximum weight on the benchpress, spit on their hands, and squash themselves flat.
Here’s how we’re progressing on the path.
When I was teaching in China I befriended a man named Frankie who was a bodybuilder and black belt in kickboxing back in Iran. There was a little lake on the campus and we’d go there to train, punching the pads, ducking, weaving, sweating.
“Matt, now we do real bodybuilding,” he declared, taking a warrior’s stance. “Kick me! Kick me in the legs, Matt!”
OK, so I hesitated at first: kicking another human is bizarre; we were gathering a crowd of curious Chinese students; and I’m reluctant to use force on my fellow humans because I’ve always been very strong. Frankie bellowed “Kick me, Matt!” at the top of his lungs until I gave him what he wanted so desperately—whacking my foot against his inner and outer thighs with enough force to fell a small tree. He loved every second.
“Kick me in the legs, Matt!”
He explained later that a good kickboxer is not afraid of pain. He is not startled or surprised by it. It’s just information running through the mind that is useful for the athlete to consider. I had tremendous respect for Frankie because he kicked like an avalanche and also, whenever the nagging sprain that plagued my upper back that year flared up, he told me to take a few days off: no weights, no cardio. Ironically, this man who demanded I dropkick his quadriceps and meat-tenderize his hamstrings taught me a whole new way of thinking: it’s possible to take care of your body without beating the crap out of it. What happened to NO PAIN NO GAIN?
This cliché is an old, frazzled jockstrap, one that pinches and still fails to protect the goods. Yes, during a set of bicep curls, when the muscle is contracting beautifully, the last few reps can really burn. This pain is a positive thing, almost pleasure, as the muscle engorges with blood and strength: the pain of an exquisite muscular contraction. All other types of pain are your body sending you clear messages to stop the activity that’s hurting you, and get some rest. Let me suggest we bury NO PAIN NO GAIN at the bottom of a mineshaft with the rest of the toxic waste, replacing it with a simpler and more honest motto: AVOID PAIN. Even an amoeba understands this one.
We need a proper authority here, one who never slayed a dragon, but he was Mr. Olympia seven times and in Conan the Barbarian, he decapitates an anaconda. I’m talking about Arnold Schwarzenegger, whose New Encyclopedia of Modern Bodybuilding is the rigour behind these notes. He writes, “The very real pain of a strain, sprain or other stress-related injury is telling you to STOP—immediately! There is no working through this kind of pain… your only recourse is to rest the area in question, and to seek medical help if the injury is serious or if it persists.”
These basic guidelines will keep you in top form.
Exception: soreness, at least to a moderate degree. Being sore in your muscles because of normal micro-tears or a buildup of lactic acid is normal when you’re exercising, especially when you’re first getting into it. But if you’ve blasted yourself so hard you can’t brush your teeth or have your morning coffee, or if your arms are still aching noodles after seven days of rest, maybe you’ve mistreated your body? In Paris, I’ve created a fitness group called the Log Club where friends meet in the woods to train, sometimes yes, with logs. More than once an enthusiastic newcomer, trained on the motto of NO PAIN NO GAIN, grabs the biggest stump possible, does four hundred lunges, then is sore for ten miserable days. After which, they never come back because Log Club = pain. Take the pressure off and remember that progress is gradual.
The shopkeeper licks his lips constantly and eyes your wooden sword with distaste. Behind him, halberds, maces, spears and flails glitter in racks. There’s a meatball stain on his apron.
“You’re gonna need something stronger than that,” he smirks. “My weapons will turn your foes inside out.”
You slap eight coppers on the counter and meet his oily gaze. “A shield please. Something serviceable.”
The old toad chuckles. “Didn’t you hear the best defense is a good offense?”
You point to a decent shield half-forgotten in a pile of wood shavings, but enough to turn a blade or blunt a club’s swing. “That’s the one.”
It’s only once you’ve bought the shield that you worry about your father’s rage. Imagine how happy he would’ve been if you’d showed up with four fat wineskins on your arm like a hunter returning with a brace of rabbits. Then he’d drink himself to dreamless sleep, snoring in the chair he barely leaves anymore, not since Mom saddled the horse and rode to Daganthor.
Now he is more eggplant than man.
Look—it’s your future. You will tend your father and endure his shouting and clumsy fists. You will cook for him and mop his piss and shit. More, you will weed, plant, lug water, reap, and carry the crop to market. He will drink the profits and sink lower in his seat until one day you take his place.
Shield in hand you realize you’ve already made up your mind to go.
Sometimes an injury is a legitimate reason to rest the body and recover, and other times we weave injuries into our stories, using them as excuses to abandon our quest. Before the first confinement in France, I was wrestling with a nagging ankle pain that kept me from running; I was getting physiotherapy once a week for calf muscles that had tightened into stones. In my desperation for non-painful cardio, I even considered slithering into the skin-tight speedos the locals wear at the pool, even took the speedo from the drawer and lay it on the bed. I stared at it for six minutes straight, shame demons gibbering in my ear, until I folded it back up and plunged it back into the deepest recesses of the drawer.
It would have been much easier after that defeat to give up the fitness quest—the sore ankle was a perfect excuse. But fortunately, physio helped, and I continued to train my calves as part of my normal leg day (making sure to AVOID PAIN), while stretching nightly. I also upgraded my footwear, and stopped running on the streets of Paris, preferring the springy forest floor. These days I walk to the forest, and warm-up my ankles, knees, hips, and back, before starting to run. This system was enough, with diet, for me to lose 15kg. Now, a petite 100kg, my ankle pain has vanished—I’m nimble as a ballerina—and I’ve lost my terror of shrink-wrapping swimwear.
Sometimes it’s best to throw on the brakes completely when you have an injury, and other times your best move is to progress on your goals, while carefully guarding the injured area. Making the right call about our injuries can be as precarious as walking a tightrope over a moat of alligators, especially when your judgement is fogged by laziness, as mine is. Clear indications you should see a doctor are: pain that lingers for a week or more, tenderness in the effected area, swelling, limited range of motion, and numbness. If you’ve been wrestling a nagging pain, hobble down to the doctor’s office. Get the treatment you need to heal and move forward.
Take charge of your body’s health by using the proactive steps outlined above, and by getting disciplined about treating your minor aches and sprains. Set aside time for ice, hot baths, stretching, foam rollers—whatever it is you need. Each person’s routine will be a little different but consider that all sports teams and serious athletes do warm-ups and cool-down stretches. I suggest you build them straight into your routine so that you can’t wriggle out. If you want to avoid injury, warm-ups and cool-down stretches are mandatory.
The following workouts are a little tougher; I’ve added a few more exercises, increased the repetitions, and now there are two sets. But look—our defenses are in place, too. Go forth, workout warriors; already your will is stronger.
Workout #1. Difficulty level: hoggoblin.
5 mins warmup (OMG it’s me)
2 sets of 10 crunches
2 sets of 10 pushups (knees OK)
2 sets of 10 squats
5 mins stretching
Workout #2. Difficulty: hoggoblin.
5 mins warmup (OMG this is me, too)
20 mins run/bike or swim
5 mins stretching
Workout #3. Difficulty level: goblin with a chainsaw.
5 mins warmup
2 sets of 10 crunches
2 sets of 10 leg raises
2 sets of 20 “twisties”
2 sets of 10 good mornings
5 mins stretching
Workout #4. “The Vivian.” Difficulty level: hoggoblin.
5 mins warmup
2 sets of 20 jumping jacks
2 sets of 20 squats
5 mins stretching
Greybeard’s eyebrows quiver with amusement, but he coughs up the info. “Yes, you will find adventure in Daganthor, and perhaps make a name for yourself, too.” He scans you up and down, seems to settle his mind. “If you seek the capital, take the road east until the river that flows backwards—you may wish to write this down. Follow the current through the forest of thorns. When you emerge from the forest, you will see the volcano’s glow if the moon is not too strong: follow it.”
You thank him, and buying a few provisions gives you a chance for one final circuit of the town with its fields and guards and stone well and the river where you had your first kiss. You bid farewell to everyone who wanted to keep you safe and small.
Home. Dad is deep in his chair and his cups, empty wineskins splattered on the floor like slain foes—they say he was a great warrior once. But now? His flesh spills over the arms of the chair and the room stinks of stale wine, sweat and piss.
“Get back out there!” he hollers, tries to stand, fails. “The eggplants need water and I need wine.”
You pack a simple backpack with hardtack and a sleeping roll, strap your shield to your back, and your sword to your waist. When you turn to say farewell, his eyes, piggish and small, narrow on your weaponry.
“You? A warrior?” His husky laugh fills the room. “You can barely push the wheelbarrow. No, it’s a joke. You’ll end up gutted in the ditch by your first orc.”
“There are worse fates,” you say, which cuts his laughter short.
Hoarse shouts follow you into the street and ring in your ears. The road is potholed and pitted but a surge of exuberance carries you through the first day. You’re headed to Daganthor, where spice and news of the greater world comes by ship, where brutes carry ladies on covered palanquins, and gladiators battle with spiked gloves to the delights of throngs. They say once a month the residents wake and the town is covered in ash: the nearby volcano coughs and sputters through the night.
Fantasies of the fabled city fill your thoughts until you finally break camp, spreading your bedroll under the stars and munching bread not much softer than your teeth. You stare at the constellations as you begin to drift off—the illusionist, the reaper, the archer, the manticore—and the possibilities stretch before you, dream-like, shimmering, magic.
That’s when you hear a nearby rustling beast. By the starlight you see it: a squat shape, roughly man-sized, all shoulders and knuckles, with your father’s eyes and a pair of tusks jutting down its face. It sniffs the air, searching, then roots its muzzle into your backpack. Starlight glints from its cruel claws, and a club studded with teeth hangs from its belt.
For a second, lying in your sleeping roll, you can’t move, can’t even breathe—a cold numbness spreads from your gut outward, pinning your arms to the ground. It would be easiest to do nothing, just wait for the club to come whistling for your face, pray to the constellations for a quick end.
No, that would prove him right, you think, and slide from your bedroll with all stealth. A nervous gurgle in your guts nearly betrays you as you grab your sword and strap your shield to your forearm. The beast is only a few metres away, grunting and gorging, head buried in the backpack. You pounce, stabbing downward with your wooden sword into the creature’s bulky shoulder. It squeals and thrashes as the sword shatters into splinters.
Wounded and snarling the hobgoblin pulls your pack off its head and draws its teeth-studded cudgel. What’s left of your sword is barely a dagger, and slippery. Your grit your teeth and clutch your shield as the monster charges.
Since I started this blog several new and old friends have reached out to discuss their fitness journeys. One common takeaway? Mental health. People are tired of the pressure to have a perfect body heaped on top of all the pressures of living in the world. Living in the world is already hard, especially if you’re not happy with your body. People are thirsty for a holistic approach to fitness that doesn’t make them more miserable, or bend them into crusty bastards. I have a dear friend who defends self-hatred as the only force that gets him out of the bed in the morning. This is a man who, when we were teenagers, tracked me down and took me into his family when my own couldn’t stand me any longer. We became strange brothers, both precociously strong, with tremendous body shame and rage that pushed us to hit the gym like gorillas. “More weight?” became our catchphrase, even if we were dealing with an injury, and his diet was so strict that he would rip his hair out for eating a crumb of accidental cheese.
You can get extremely fit if driven by hatred of yourself, or by raging against the world that has hurt you over and over. But you will never get healthy. I want more for you. I want your workouts to be a time when you can unplug from your daily pressures and help yourself. Working out can also relax and stimulate the mind, allowing information to sink in, as described in this podcast. Exercise provides physical benefits, obviously, but also psychological benefits—don’t waste them.
Armour your body by developing good habits to prevent injury—this is relatively simple to implement. Stripping off the armour that you’ve carefully wrapped around your mind to keep the bruising world at bay? Now that’s heroic.
Today we set an intent to choose happiness over pain; on your quest you will forge a mighty will but now the path forks. To the left, your workouts will be vigorous but ultimately positive meditations. In time you will become the dragon slayer, revered. To the right, your workouts will be miserable sessions of self-torture as you breathe smoke and brood deep within dim-lit caverns. You will transform into the dragon itself: detested, powerful, and alone.