(Originally posted in the Stratford Star and Fairfield Sun newspapers on April 6, 2012, in my “Walsh’s Wonderings” column.)
I recently undertook a fitness challenge from a fitness challenge from a friend, which is a prettier way of saying I’ve allowed myself to be humiliated on a weekly basis. This humiliation takes the form of something that’s been the bane of my existence since elementary school: pushups.
I’ve always thought of pushups as the ultimate waste of energy. When I lie down on the floor, I usually plan on staying down there for a while. There’s something incredibly humbling about the symphony of groans and creaking bones that accompany my efforts to lower myself to the ground. Birthing cows make less noise. As a result, outside of looking for contacts or trying to unplug the answering machine, I tend to put most of my focus toward staying on my feet.
I do acknowledge that it’s a great workout, such as it is. It primarily targets the muscles of the chest, triceps, and shoulders, but for me it’s a full-body workout: every muscle in my body shakes like a frightened kitten as I try to push myself off the ground. If shaking uncontrollably were a workout, I’d be Jack LaLane.
There’s also a pushup for every personality type: “rookies” (those learning the basic movement) or “pansies” (people like me who treat pain as God intended — something to be avoided) prefer the kind that allows for the knees to touch ground. This simulates the form of a pushup without al that ugly effort they normally require. Then there are the show-offs, the ones who perform their pushups on their fingers or using the backs of their hands. These are the type of people who ride racing bikes on walking paths and they should be avoided at all costs … especially the backs of their hands. Finally, there are those who perform the one-handed pushup, usually in the most crowded area of the gym. They tend to undress in front of you in the locker room with a careless disregard for towel usage before going home to watch Rocky IV. Again. Seriously; ask them.
However, pushups fail to appeal to me on even a symbolic level: right after you push yourself up from the ground, you consciously lower yourself back down again. It’s an exercise Anthony Robbins would do if Anthony Robbins were a depressed emo teenager. It seems silly to expend so much energy pushing one’s body mere inches off the carpet, although I admit it allows me to see how much dog hair has managed to escape the maw of our vacuum cleaner.
Still, I couldn’t escape the inevitability of pushups as I grew up. My swim and soccer coaches assigned them with wild abandon. In my zeal to get them over with, I resorted to what my older brother referred to as “rabbit pushups,” a quick muscle-twitch action that accompanies a barely discernible bending of the elbow before it straightens back out. Rather than a test of strength, it looks as if someone is having a seizure on a plank. I had to do pushups at Fairfield Prep for every minute I was late for class. After the first week, I was rarely late for class.
However, any exercise used as punishment should be called by its real name: punishment. I don’t see anyone suggesting we chain cannon balls to our legs and break rocks. On a practical level, I have my dignity to worry about. As I get older, I find myself hoarding what little I have left. I recently found out that the world record for the most push-ups performed without stopping (or even asking for a defibrillator) is held by Minoru Yoshida of Japan: he did 10,507.
Last night before bed, I did 11. I don’t think I can take this kind of beating.
