Thursday, December 1, 2011


I feel your pain, yes, I do! There was a time you used to be fit, and looked it too. No, it wasn’t a six pack tucked neatly into your low-waisters necessarily, but at least it was flat….ish. And the shoulders had the nice rounded look of one who knew how to work with his hands, if you know what I mean. But look at that lying wall of glass in the dressing room that tells you that you aren’t young any more. Look at those once proud shoulders that have caved in with the weight of keeping up with the kids, the boss, the deadlines and the EMIs. And whose is that thing you are wearing around your middle? That… that lumpy thing that seems to grow from you and yet doesn’t seem to be a part of you… where did that come from? Just the other day, you would fit into a size 32 and then it got a little tight and you thought you would start running every day and lose the extra bits instead of buying a new size. Then it was your birthday, or was it Diwali, when you got all these new clothes and they all surprisingly got you clothes a size too big. You meant to get them changed but when you tried them on, the fit didn’t seem too bad. So you thought you’d wear them for a while and then get them altered.

That was some years ago. And somewhere in the middle, the details got a little fuzzy. Every three months, you would start running, or going to the gymnasium or those kickboxing classes and then it would get too cold to rise early. In the evenings once the presentations got done, or once the kids went back to school or when you were done with the next round of tours. What’s the point starting and stopping and starting all over again, you thought. So you buy a new pair of trainers and a new gym-bag and sipper to mark this new resolve (or was it the new mountain-bike this time?), and there you go, working on the inches. This time they’re sure to go.

You remember the disapproving look your wife gave you when you tried to fit into that singlet that she bought you in a fit of madness on your honeymoon ten years ago, and that look drives you through the first four winter mornings. And then you get late on Saturday night, you have guests over on Sunday and your wife tells you how nice you look in that new tie and how she’d much rather you remembered to drop her over at her mother’s rather than fit into that singlet and before you know it, another three months have gone and your new gym bag is happy getting stuffed with old books and magazines you’ve removed from the library but haven’t yet decided to give away, just like the other two old ones in the closet, one stuffed with your stamp albums and the other with the stuff you didn’t want the kids to see.

So there you are, unfit, unshapely, unhappy and unfulfilled, on the cusp of another year-end, and wondering if you will ever get to be the way the photos say you once used to be, or hoped to be, depending on whose photos we are talking about here. What’s worse is that those gym-bags in the closet tell you that your plans of ever being a regular gym-rat or trail-cruiser will not work.

So maybe you should give up on the idea of sweating your way back to shape and instead try one of those new fad diets… Atkins, at-kin’s whatever… So what if you don’t lose even an ounce of weight? At least you’ll have something new to talk about when you meet friends over the weekend.

Or maybe you should just drop whatever else you are doing and quickly read the rest of this story. You might want to kiss the hand that typed these words…

John McSweeney is the man to kiss actually, for if you ask me, he has created a ‘do it anywhere’ workout that is arguably the best in the world. How can I tell? Well, like almost every other 30 time, for me, has proven to be a faithless lover. Like your story above, I too have struggled to squeeze in a workout every few months. I too have fretted over that unrecognisable man in the mirror and I too have wondered if I’ll ever become half the man I hoped to be.

But John McSweeney changed all that. It’s been four months since I first read about the man and his ‘Tiger moves’ and I have since gotten back into the best shape of my life (for the record, I was once a dedicated gym rat and I wasn’t really an embarrassment to the establishment).

I don’t mean to brag. The ‘best shape of my life’ might be just pooh-pooh stuff for you but the point is I went from being all puffy and soft to a point where instead of my friends buying me clothes a few sizes bigger than the ones I was stuffing myself into, they were actually saying things like “Ah! You’ve been going to the gym!”, while all I had been doing was just 15 minutes of McSweeney magic, anytime, anywhere.

Unlike weight workouts, I did not need to haul dumbbells and barbells and a bench around with me. In fact, I did not need a road to run on, bars of all sorts to push and pull on or even a mat to lie down on. All I needed was 15 minutes and the willingness to focus mind and body into a concerted effort that was bound to bear sweet fruit.

There have been times when I have been working a tight travel schedule and even then I managed squeezing in a quick work out while waiting at the terminal. When getting a work out is this easy there really are no excuses for missing one.

So watch this space next week for the rest of the story on the man and the methods behind the McSweeney miracle workout, but just in case my word isn’t good enough for you, then read up what fitness guru and author John Peterson says about his first meeting with McSweeney. “ McSweeney was 63 years old then… but looked a lot closer to 45 and moved like a man of 25. And he said he expected to stay that way right up to the end of his days… which was exactly what he did!”

Now show me a man, or a woman, who wouldn’t want people to say that about them when they are 63, and I’ll show you someone who would rather spend their fifteen minutes looking at the mirror wondering what ran over them, while the rest of us could just roll up our sleeves, and believe me that’s all the preparation it takes, and get into our ‘tiger moves’.

So hang in there folks, for your way out of yourselves …


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