The Fat Bloke Diaries

Episode Sixty – Strong Arm Tactics

‘Bingo wings’ is such an unpleasant term. It doesn’t conjure up anything good in the mind. The flaps of skin dangling underneath someone’s upper arms aren’t a nice thing to spot, especially if they’re your own.

I haven’t got bingo wings. Yet. But I haven’t got Popeye-style muscles either. I could certainly be described as ‘barrel chested’, a lovely term that my Granny used to describe any big chap (to which Granddad would usually reply “She means he’s built like a brick privy”), but again, it’s hardly chiseled

Up until now most of the exercise that I’ve done has focused on my lower body. Walking; running; static cycling. All these things have been for the benefit of my legs and heart – not that my heart is in my lower body, unless I really wasn’t paying attention in biology class, or in physics for that matter. I have no idea how strong and selective gravity can be.

Moobs are another area that I haven’t targeted either. I certainly won’t be mentioning mine here (not that I’ve grown any man-boobs back recently, I never said that), but let’s just say that I’ve recently noticed a little increased wobblage on my front when I jog, which isn’t pleasant for anyone.

So it’s time to give my legs a rest and work my chest, arms and back. That can only mean one thing: press-ups

I thought I’d get straight into the manly stuff with a set of planche press-ups. These are the ones where you have your feet higher than your shoulders, thereby taking extra weight on the target muscles. Then I tried some and thought again. Well, when I say that I tried some…

I placed my feet on a barstool (that I just happen to own) and got myself into a nice comfortable starting position. It didn’t feel too bad. I could quite easily get into this ‘up’ position’. With a bit of a struggle I could lower myself into the ‘down position. But, try as I might, I couldn’t push myself back to ‘up’.

I gave it several of my best shots but my arms simply couldn’t do it. I tried gently shoving myself upwards. That only made my shoulders tense up. The more I pushed, the more blood I felt pooling up behind my eyes. So I changed my approach. This time I went for the sudden lunge attack; all that did was make me wobble alarmingly and almost fall off the stool. Three of its legs and one of my own waved dangerously in the air, but my elbows never came close to locking. I had to face it; I was going nowhere.

After holding myself there for a while, on my outstretched arms with my feet back on a stool, my shoulders began to tremble and my hips starting to droop. Eventually my arms could hold me no longer and I collapsed to the floor. My face, chest and belly lay flat against the carpet. My legs remained on the stool, sticking straight up from my hips. It was neither gainly nor comfortable. It wasn’t big or clever either, just pathetic. I began to suspect that the planche technique may have been beyond me.

I moved a step backwards to the more conventional press-up form. No shame there, I thought. This would be easy. But I was wrong on both counts. I’m shamed to say that the most I could manage was a paltry eight push-ups, and I was wobbling badly for at least three of those. The first couple were alright but after that my form began to go west as my belly went south. Fortunately it’s been growing a little recently, so although my supposedly straight body shape sagged alarming in the middle, at least I didn’t have to lower myself too far before at least part of me hit the floor.

I’m not going to resort to modified press-ups (or to give them their less flattering and politically incorrect other name, girl press-ups) as I’m a proper northern bloke. This ‘on all fours’ option is a sign of quitting, of allowing myself the easy option. And it has unpleasant connotations; I’m just glad I don’t have a dog.

So I’ll stick with the traditional kind. It should help build my arms, shoulders, back and core muscles. These last will hopefully improve my running form. I’m told that they’re also good for so many other things in daily life. That has much more pleasant connotations, but at my age, it’s monthly if I’m lucky.


© Shaun Finnie 2009
 

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