The Ultimate Version of You

Experiencing bodyattack aim 2 - Melbourne, Australia 29-30 Oct 2011

It’s all about the build.  The highs and lows of the music.  The contrast in your voice.  The way you create excitement and anticipation.  The things you do that move people.

It’s all about Presence.

How we all came to be at that one small gym in Melbourne on this final weekend in October is the result of a journey that started at different times for all of us but whatever path we had followed, this is where we had all ended up.  Some of us had meandered, some of us had walked, some of our journeys may have limped forward in fits and starts, and some of us may have charged full pelt with no hesitation but whichever way our journey took us, right here is where it could change.  In this tiny, windowless, fluorescent-lit, relatively uninspiring, largely inadequate venue. 

The one common denominator was bodyattack aimⁱ 2.  The very first aim 2 on the Australian calendar.  We had all come together to spend two intensive days with bodyattack royalty so the imperfect venue became secondary.  Naturally most hailed from Melbourne or Geelong, one from Hobart, and one from Sydney (that’s me) seeking an opportunity to learn from one of the very best in the world.  Certainly the very best in Australia.  You couldn’t get much better unless you flew to Auckland, New Zealand and plonked yourself in the middle of Studio 1 at Les Mills World of Fitnessⁱⁱ, and even then you’d be splitting hairs to find much between them.

We were all present, but did we have Presence?

Mostly we’re not born knowing we want to grow up to be a Group Fitness Instructor.  When I was small my choice of vocation began with Fireman (age 4), followed by Typewriter (a 6 year old’s euphemism for ‘secretary’).  With my record success at writing stories during primary school it moved swiftly on to author (age 8), then because there lay a dormant talent for being quick off the mark (while barefoot too) I decided upon 100 metre sprinter (age 9¾ – although I admit I was hazy as to how I would make any money from merely running 100 metres each day).  There suffered a few lost years of ambivalence while I had my first ‘serious’ boyfriend (age 11 through to the start of high school), was amended briefly to Hairdresser until my grandmother pointed out I would have to wash peoples’ dirty hair (age 13), hit a decent roadblock in my early teens when an interest in makeup, bikinis, bras and boys overtook my interest in athletics, and finally moved on to just wanting to earn enough money immediately so that, like any self-respecting Antipodean, I could travel the world with a green backpack complete with an Australian flag hand-sewn to the side.  And who needed university for that?

Eventually, after four years of roaming the globe and dividing my time between Whistler and London I buckled under the pressure exerted by my mother to “return home, get a proper job, and get my superannuation in order” (except really all my visas had simply expired).  I became a lawyer and it was during this time I discovered the gym.  Then bodyattackⁱⁱⁱ and bodypump^iv.  And as they say, the rest is history.

And now here I was.  In Melbourne.  At great expense I was now rubbing shoulders with bodyattack royalty (the course, accommodation, flights, food, cabs, personal free time and a brief but costly foray into the Stella McCartney section of the Adidas store on Bourke Street don’t come cheap).  Ready to upsize my skills.  Ready to work.  Ready to give it a red hot go.  While my main motivation was to learn, I mostly wanted to learn from the best in the business.  And since he wasn’t coming to me, there was nothing else for it.  I had to go to him.

Nathan Jones^v is one of the best in the business.  The embodiment of it.  He lives and breathes the philosophies of Les Mills, is the essence of bodyattack, and his passion for creating and inspiring excellence is infectious.  I’m not trying to be cliché; there’s just no other way to put it.  He created an impact when he burst into our living rooms on the DVD^vi for bodyattack 58 and has remained there ever since.  He created even more of an impact when I was introduced to him briefly at the Quarter 3 Sydney workshops this year.  The intensity of his gaze alone is enough to make sure you give nothing but your most honest response, or in my case, a stammered stream of completely irrelevant information in answer to his pointed questions (‘when did you do aim 1?’ he had asked; Ummm, well it was raining the day I did it, pouring in fact; October last year maybe?).  He is an open, powerful force and he gives you his undivided attention in a way that is compelling.  Truth be told, it’s slightly unnerving.

He has Presence.


Looking me right in the eye (smack through those carefully locked little doors and into my soul, so it felt), he encouraged me to do aim 2.  Just do aim 2; he nodded emphatically, eyeing me with certainty.  That was all it took.  A five minute conversation and a piercing gaze.  Obediently I went home that night and booked in immediately. 

What would we do without the convenience of the internet, a credit card and impulse purchases? 

It was fortunate that he did create such an impression because had I not signed up so quickly, chances are I may not have gone at all. 

During the following two months leading up to my aim 2 Melbourne trip I became ambivalent, had moments of self-doubt, questioned whether I was even ready for aim 2, silently cursed my group fitness manager for telling me I should consider aiming to become a Presenter^vii at all (who, me?), revised my aim 1 notes, practiced my choreography over and over, promptly forgot parts of it, watched the BA74^viii DVD until I could quote it in my sleep, taught brilliantly, taught badly, managed some truly inspiring moments, connected with everyone in the room, was a rock star, then a tragedy, voiced words of genius, forgot what to say, ‘used silence’ with precision, or spoke too much.  I had moments where I felt assertive then insecure, poised then worried, nervous then excited, and all of it culminated in what could possibly be the worst bodypump class I have ever taught in my life.  And even more mortifying?  A member of the Australian bodypump Presenting team – one who I admire and have great respect for - chose that very class to make an impromptu appearance (even now I still cringe).  All a mere four days before aim 2 was scheduled to take place.  Sure, my memorably bad class may have happened while teaching another program but if that doesn’t strip away your confidence, what does?

I was crushed.  Inconsolable.  Horrified.  Could I even get my money back?  Unlikely.

One Tribe.  Be Brave.  Change the World. 

Say it three times, Nathan instructed.  And say it louder.  With purpose.

I will judge none of you.  And none of you will judge each other.  I will love you all as much as I do now at the end of this.

That intensity again.  That passion.  An impossible blend of protection and pushing you to achieve your best.  Better than your best.  Outside of your best.  Above and beyond.  Offering comfort while pushing you right outside of your comfort zone.  No safety net, but an empathetic hand of support.  Believe me, he advised, I’ve been there.  I won’t ask you to do anything I haven’t already done myself.

Use silence, find space, script outcomes, let it land, grow your contrast, don’t look up, don’t look down, be less structured, reference the impact, teach from the Sweet Spot, don’t hold back, work Gears 1 and 2, use lows to create more highs, have a purpose, be authentic, go bigger, let the music guide you, land the heel, tighten the range, better transitions, bigger transitions, create change faster, provide an experience, be short and sharp, say less, give more, don’t speak, say something, use your weaknesses.  Be free.

Learning Check (Nathan loves the Learning Check).  What have you learned so far?

I did my law degree at university at nights while working by day for an investment bank known for having unreasonably high expectations and for flogging its staff to death.  It’s fair to say I know how to take stress, deal with tiredness, process information quickly, and sit through a lecture or two.

After Day 1 alone my head was spinning, my knees felt as though they needed an injection of a good lubricant, my temples pounded, my feet were hot, my back was tight, my hips hurt, I felt horribly sticky with sweat, I was thirsty, I was hungry, I was tired, and I wanted to present my track again and again and again until I got it right.  Until he was pleased.  Until I had hit that Sweet Spot.   

No amount of promised comfort or empathy can take away the anxiety of performing in front of the very best.

You’re at aim 2 now, he reminded us.  At this level we don’t fluff around.  At this level we only have time to give you the facts.  At this level, you are expected to make the change like That, he clicks his fingers loudly.  Bang. Like. That.

Everyone there that weekend wants to be outstanding.  To be noticed.  To learn and to get better.  To aim high and to achieve more.  We were the first ones to book in for aim 2.  We are eager, we have no time to waste, and we are impatient.  We want it all and we want it now.

We want to be world-class. 

Nathan wants us to be world-class too.  More than I’ve ever seen from anyone, let alone a near total stranger.

There will be moments during this weekend, he warned, when what we do will be confronting.  It will penetrate you and leave you raw.  But if you embrace it you will come out of the other side a better instructor.  More well-rounded.  Able to appeal to a wider audience.  Aspire to be multidimensional and you will unlock new potential.

He was right.  Day 1 may have been tiring but Day 2 sapped you even further mentally.  The course content was way beyond anything I expected.  If facilitated well – and Nathan wasn’t letting you squirm your way out of any of it - it exposed you, it pushed you, it pulled you, it pressed you.  It circled you like a predator until you gave in and gave what it asked of you.  It was both exhausting and exhilarating.  Nathan’s delivery was impeccable.  What gives him the edge is his obvious passion.  His driving force is his honesty.  It is mind-blowing what he gives of himself and he expects no less from us in return.  Nor should he.  He genuinely wants us to succeed.  Us – largely a bunch of strangers.  He wants it for us as much as we want it for ourselves.  It’s a rare trait, maybe even a gift, but it has an endearing and humbling effect.  It inspires loyalty beyond reason.  One Tribe.

Learning Check.  We must have reached our eighth Learning Check of the weekend.  How will you keep the inspiration alive once the high of this module has worn off?  Once you are alone again?  Once things get tough?  Loyalty.  Drive.  Ambition.  Having confidence when your confidence is stripped away.  By being Brave.

Music is a crucial element of every Les Mills program.  An integral, fundamental factor.  Without great music and without great instructors and ambassadors, there is no Les Mills brand.  Musicality is the ability to connect with accompanying music; to have sensitivity to it and interpret it so that, in an instructor’s case, your movements and voice pitch match the different elements in appropriate ways.  It might sound simple but it takes real talent to do it well. 

No one does Musicality better than Susan Renata^ix, Nathan told us.  Watch this.  Several clips of Susan presenting a warm up track from bodystep and a shoulder track from bodypump filled the screen.  Look!  Look at that!  The intensity in his eyes shifted to pride - she’s spot on; no one better!  The best in the world, he stated again, hands defiantly on hips.

Grabbing an iPod, he turned most of the lights off and scattered us about the room.  All we had to do, he directed, was listen to whatever song he played and move to it in the way it made us feel.  No choreography.  Just move.  Remember, no one is watching anyone.  No one is judging anyone.  Just let it go.

‘Greased Lightning’ was first.  Lots of John Travolta-esque finger pointing and hip wiggling.  A slow love ballad was second prompting a bit of Stevie Wonder weaving but really, a love song?  We all had some trouble with that one.  Finally, an old pulsing bodyattack peak track 9^x filled the room, one I hadn’t heard in ages.  Don’t jump straight into choreography, Nathan reminded us, just move the way it makes you feel.  Bodies were bounding everywhere jumping to the heavy beat; air guitar smashed out, drum rolls mimed. 

Caught up in the excitement, Nathan cranked the music to rock concert levels and dived into the fray.  Leaping into the centre of the pack, he faced the mirrors and immediately switched into performing the accompanying choreography with all the sharpness, precision and professionalism the world knows him for.   To be right beside him when this happened was something else.  Without instruction, without a word (at that volume you couldn’t have heard anything anyway), every single one of us automatically fell into formation and following his lead, instinctively matched him move for move.  It was a truly defining moment.  If you could have bottled the energy in the room under high pressure it would have exploded into the stratosphere.  We were just a group of instructors (granted, with one of the planet’s best smack in our midst) but the mirror reflected a world-class presentation of a final peak track.  Something Lisa Osborne^xi would have been proud of.  Not a foot out of place, every single person completely letting go; feeling the music, performing to it with passion and energy and excitement and sheer pleasure.  It might have lasted only five minutes, maybe not even, but it was the best five minutes of the weekend.  It was unrefined, pure, spontaneous reaction.  One of the most uncontrived, sincere moments of the module.  I still glow with delight now when I think about it; still get goose bumps about how it made me feel.  It was a move you moment.  Change the World.

That wasn’t actually part of the module, Nate hooted as he pumped his fist in the air with adrenalin, still psyched, his face animated, flushed and beaming with enthusiasm, it just happened.  But MAN, how amazing was it?!!  I wish we could have filmed it!  We’ll never have that moment again, he said earnestly.  That’s what I’m talking about!!

As in any profession, the yellow brick road to being a good/great/awesome/elite/world-class instructor is not paved with gleaming, evenly spaced golden bricks.  As you run along your Les Mills path to glory you discover that it is rocky, covered with pot-holes and often hard to find.  Sometimes you can’t see the road, sometimes you lose your way, sometimes you strike a barrier, sometimes you even hit a dead end.  On occasion the road is so narrow that only a few of the steely, determined and courageous out there can squeeze through the gap.  Sometimes there is only room for one.

Sometimes though, there are defining moments.  Moments that count.  Moments which remind you that you are part of something big.  Eighty one countries around the world, five million^xii people every week, over seventy thousand instructors, every nationality, every colour, every language - yet we all move to the beat of the same drum.  One Tribe.

We all have goals and dreams and ambitions.  Some are achievable, some may not be, some may be thwarted by outside influences we have no control over.  Every one of us has the potential to shine no matter what the platform.  If you do nothing else, do this:  use today.  Forget about yesterday.  Don’t think about tomorrow.  Be present today and you will have Presence.

And aim to Change the World.

One class at a time.

The best in the business... Nathan Jones
(Photo: Vu Kwan - Brisbane Q4 2011)

ⁱ AIM – Advanced Instructor Module training. Structured pathway to joining the Les Mills Trainer and Presenter Team.  One who leads from the front to educate, inspire and mentor other Instructors 

ⁱⁱ Les Mills – an athlete from New Zealand who competed in four Olympic Games. Along with his wife, he is the original founder of the Les Mills gym chain – the first being opened in 1968

ⁱⁱⁱ Sports-inspired cardio training that builds strength and stamina

^iv Barbell workout that strengthens and tones your entire body

^v bodyattack Head Program Coach - Les Mills Asia Pacific

^vi Instructor resources provided globally each quarter to Les Mills’ certified instructors for learning and education purposes

^vii One who has demonstrated the highest level of skill as a physical role model and technician, exhibited excellence in the Five Key Elements, is able to teach, educate, inspire and nurture new talent as well as gym members and fitness enthusiasts.

^viii bodyattack release #74 – released in Australia at the beginning of quarter 3, 2011

^ix Training Director for bodypump and International Master Trainer for bodystep who has appeared on countless training DVDs

^x The penultimate, final blast; last chance to push beyond your limits

^xi Lisa Osborne – Global Program Director for bodyattack and bodyattack program choreographer; the CEO of bodyattack

^xii Current estimate – January 2011 (source bodyattack 73 education session)

Doctor, Doctor, give me the news

Lately I’ve had a strange sensation in my left arm.  I say ‘lately’ but it’s been around for awhile.  Like months.  Maybe even longer.  It comes and goes.  Generally when I’m feeling particularly moody about it I make the Husband take my pulse, whining plaintively that it feels as though the pulse is weak and thready.  Because he’s such a tolerant person, he indulgently takes my pulse then provides his expert prognosis.  It’s not weak and thready, he tells me authoritatively, it’s strong and pulsing.  It is, in fact, behaving exactly as a pulse should.  And then he goes back to watching the tele.

I’m not satisfied. 

Convinced I am dying of some sort of rare form of heart disease which afflicts only the very fit and healthy (what? It could happen) and encouraged by the Husband who is becoming less tolerant with every pulse check, I make an appointment to see my local doctor. 

Between you and me, I’m not good in waiting rooms.  Partly because I’m impatient (so I’m told – I know, I find it hard to believe too) I’m uncomfortable sitting around waiting for anything at the best of times but a doctor’s surgery has its own special vibe.  These waiting rooms are deathly quiet, the walls are usually painted in an old-fashioned, pallid colour, the uncomfortable upright chairs are placed way too close together (if you weren’t sick before, you will be now), and there is usually, without fail, a messy pile of outdated magazines on a communal centre table.  To alleviate anxiety you may be tempted to look at one, but that means touching a germ-coated magazine.  Less than ideal.

In contrast to the other waiting patients, I appear to be glowing with good health.  And dressed inappropriately in my bright gym gear.  The other patients are dressed in dreary greys and blacks and most of them have scarves wrapped around their necks.  It’s quite disconcerting.  Particularly because it is spring and it is sunny and warm outside.  Who are these strange people who insist on dressing as though they have just taken shelter from a surprise assault of Arctic conditions?  Shrinking down a little lower into my seat, I wait quietly until my name is called, then jump up and dart with lightening speed into the consultation room.  It’s fair to say I don’t much like being around sick people.  They make me uneasy.

Before you start, I say, holding up my hand to silence the doctor (not that she’s made any solid attempts to speak or even diagnose me yet), I know what you’re going to say.  But my problem is not muscular.  I teach fitness classes.  I know what muscular pain and discomfort feels like.  And this isn’t it.  This is my heart, I tell her sadly, my right hand cradling the left side of my chest.  Or even (ominous pause) maybe a brain tumour.  Google tells me I’m having a heart attack though, so I think we ought to start there.  I sit down and sigh heavily.

She hides a small, knowing smirk but takes my pulse (like I haven’t already gone down that road a thousand times) and then my blood pressure with a rectangular, boxy little machine.  Gone are the days of manually pumping up the little rubber ball by hand and waiting for the air to expel from the material Velcro cuff they wrap around your arm.  Now they have a machine to do that for them.  Of course they do.  Pumping up that little rubber ball can be very taxing if you do it a few times in one day.

She snorts.  Resting heart rate – 51.  So low.  SO low (she raises her eyes heaven-ward).  Perfect blood pressure.  Couldn’t be more perfect.  Retrieving April’s recent cholesterol test she all but rolls her eyes (she might not have actually rolled them but I could feel her rolling them).  Lowest cholesterol I’ve ever seen.  SO low.  She likes to emphasise the “so” a lot.  She’s South African.  I’ve noticed they do that quite a bit.  Or else use the word “hectic” in places where it shouldn’t be used (and elongate the ‘e’ so it drags out sounding like this: “heeeeectic”).  I’m surprised she didn’t say ‘you have a heeeeectically low resting heart rate’.  That’s the kind of inappropriate use I mean.  It’s unique to South Africans I’ve noticed.  No one else manages to insert the word ‘heeeectic’ into every second sentence they utter when talking about things that are not even remotely hectic.

Propping me up on the bed (which is really more like a high bench with an insufficient layer of padding), she makes me close my eyes and performs another very technical test on me.  Taking a needle, she lightly taps me on both arms with the pointy tip.  Feel the same? she inquires.  Yes.  Next, she runs a cotton ball down either arm.  Any difference?  she asks.  Nope.

It’s obvious there’s nothing else for it.  We both agree that referring me to a cardiologist is the next most logical step.  Along with a trip to the leading professor at the Melanoma Unit at Royal Prince Alfred Hospital for a thorough skin check. You may think this is a rather extravagent leap to make but two things could give it probable cause: I am an outdoors girl; if the sun is shining, I like to be out in it (yes, I wear sunscreen).  Plus my father passed away from Melanoma. So all in all, this is not such a bad idea.  Even though I had my last skin check on our most recent Christmas eve – well planned, I know – it is never too soon to check again. 

One last thing, she says just before I leave.  If you could just humour me.  Here’s the name of an excellent Physiotherapist.  Won’t you go and see him?  Just to rule out that it’s nothing muscular?

*   *   *   *   *

Marching home, I immediately make the all-important calls.  The cardiologist schedules me in for the following week.  The physiotherapist slots me in the very next day.  The Melanoma Unit at RPA however does not seem to realise that Melanoma is actually somewhat life-threatening, if indeed you happen to have it.  With the nonchalance of those who deal with critical and grave circumstances daily, they tell me there’s an opening for February next year.  Over four months away.  February?  I could be dead by then, I wail.  You know melanoma is very aggressive, don’t you? I demand huffily.  If I have to wait four months and I’ve got melanoma now, I might not even make it to the appointment.  I know, they say, unmoved.

This system does not sound terribly fair.

Eventually, after a second phone call accompanied by near-teary complaints of almost certain and immediate death, they manage to slot me in for the following Wednesday.  One week away.  One week compared with four months is a much quicker turnaround.  Hopefully I’ll live until then.  I’ll take that, I sniffle, as I hang up.

For the next week I implore the Husband to make the most of our time together because, you know, there might not be much of it left.  One evening, while sprawled on the couch I despondently give him my verbal (and apparently last) Will & Testament, grandly telling him that he can “have everything that is mine”, although what he’s going to do with eight pairs of very colourful Nike LunarGlides in female size US6.5 remains a mystery.  I know he’ll steal my Nike gym bag without a moment’s hesitation though; I’ve caught him eyeing it off on many occasions. 

I’m yet to still write down my Will on actual paper though.  I blame the whole 'necessity for a witness’ thing; it brings me undone every time.  Two witnesses are required and to avoid any complications, it is best that you and your two witnesses all sign in the presence of each other.  It is important to all sign using the same pen or else it could cast doubt as to whether the Will was signed on the same occasion.  Neither witness should be a beneficiary of the Will (not hard since I’ve magnanimously offered all my worldly goods to the Husband anyway) but these witnesses should be able to be easily traceable and found.  So tiresome.  SO tiresome.  Heeeectically tiresome, as a South African might be tempted to say.

I did send a Will to the Husband by email once a few years ago, after I took one look at the tiny 8-seater aeroplane I was about to board during a trip to a health retreat in Thailand.  The plane’s appearance and the pilot’s indifference were both cause for great alarm.  Back in Sydney, the Husband (who is not a lawyer) claimed at the time that my hastily compiled and emailed Will was unlikely to hold up in court.  Even though I’m quite sure he’s lost the email by now, I reckon it might have been enough to get him over the probate line although I’m yet to find a case where an emailed, unwitnessed Will, drafted within moments of boarding a tiny aircraft three hours south of Bangkok, has been tested under New South Wales law. 

The Will may not be a pressing requirement right now anyway because the cheery Physiotherapist thinks the problem is muscular as well as some sort of vague misalignment issue.  Here are some very uncomfortable stretches to do, he says cheerily, handing me a photocopy of instructions and diagrams, and I’ll see you on Friday.  Agreeably I make an appointment for Friday which I end up cancelling because on reflection I figure that muscular and misalignment issues are not life threatening but potential heart problems and cancer are.  Once we rule those out, we can spend money on physiotherapy with gay abandon.  One must prioritise after all.

Being a cardiologist and therefore higher up in the medical food chain, I was expecting the cardiologist’s waiting room to be an improvement on the waiting room decor of a normal GP’s.  Sadly not.  What struck me as odd was that there seemed to be an awful lot of chairs in the waiting area.  What felt like hundreds.  At least 18 anyway.  How many people was the cardiologist expecting to arrive at once? 

I’ve never had an ECG[1] before so that turned out to be quite an experience.  A chatty nurse led me into a room, asking me to strip down to my underwear and lie down on the bed.  Again, confusion surrounds ‘bed’ and ‘high, narrow bench with minimal cushioning’.  Because I had a suspicion there’d be a request to strip off, I made sure I wore a nice matching set of underwear, which in reality looks a lot like a bikini, and because I’m fond of bikinis I felt quite at home.  The chatty nurse then placed circular plastic things (akin to grey toy handcuffs) around my wrists and ankles.  Because it now looked as though I was hooked up to some sort of electrocution device, I nervously enquire as to whether this will hurt?  Oh no, the chatty nurse laughs gaily, we don’t hurt people here. 

An apparently redundant second nurse was also in the room during this time, not helping her colleague or attending to me at all but instead spending her time casually applying makeup in readiness for the day ahead. As I lay there ostensibly plastic-handcuffed to the ECG machine, they both begin talking to each other about me as if I wasn’t actually there, or perhaps was somewhat deaf, agreeing that I looked “a little bit fit”.  Turning to me, they decide to include me in the conversation.  Do I go to a gym?  What do I do?  What do I eat?  And pointedly - how often do I run on a treadmill? (Treadmill?!  Why not outside?).  My self-confessed peanut M&M addiction was all but ignored.  I’m not sure why.  Thus formed the basis of my very first ever experience of testing my heart for deficiencies.

Out of the ECG testing room and into another room with a treadmill (there is a lot of fascination with treadmills here, I decide) plus a few other large, scary machines, some complete with computer screens.  Again, kit off, lie down, wait for the cardiologist.   The cardiologist turned out to be a 5 foot Asian man who decides to do some sort of ultrasound on my heart.  Sticking circular suction caps to various parts of me, he hooks me up to all sorts of tubes and wires, finally smearing a clear gel all over the place and then rolls a fat piece of equipment over it.  See, there are the four chambers of your heart, he points out with enthusiasm, and those are the valves.  Gross.  I mean, happy that it’s beating and all, but still, I don’t require a visual on that.  Why the clear gel is necessary and how this thing can manage to view my heart at all is a mystery. 

Somehow he measures the size of my heart which turns out it to be “the right size”.  That’s good news, I think to myself.  I suppose too small could be a problem, and who knows what too big might mean?  He tells me my heart appears to be functioning normally (great to hear) and that I have all the good things on my side like low cholesterol, low resting heart rate, low blood pressure, no extra fat on the body.  I'm feeling quite bouyant now, confident even, until he ruins it all by nonchalantly reminding me that people have been known to drop dead without any indicators at all.  Happens all the time.

Oh.

Despite the fact I’m small and fit ("look fit" are his actual words which means he's not entirely convinced I am fit) and not obese, he says, we will nonetheless do all the testing properly.  We like a good, thorough cardiologist, don’t we. 

Promptly he scrawls out an ineligible referral to send me off for chest and neck x-rays and gives me a few tips for a better diet.  Plenty of fresh produce, he instructs.  Lots of leafy greens.  Legumes.  Small amounts of proteins – a handful of meat is all you need, he tells me seriously (he has small hands though and I have grave doubts that the Husband will agree to a steak the size of a cupcake).  A bit of dark chocolate is ok.  No mention of peanut M&Ms though.  Or loaves of sour dough bread with Vegemite.  He is, however, unhappy with sports supplements.  Why is it that people can’t just rely on fresh produce? he laments.  I don’t know, I say, is it bad to take sports supplements?  We don’t know, he shakes his head grimly, there has never been enough testing done on them to know definitively.  For that reason alone, he suggests, it’s better not to take them.  Nuts, he cries happily, and green, leafy vegetables (I think he may have said “wegetables”).  The Asian and Mediterranean farmers – those who live off the land – they all have good diets.  All fresh stuff.  Nothing processed.  It's not until they move to the cities that they all begin dying of heart issues.  Stay away from anything processed (probably like peanut M&Ms) – no good, he wags his finger and shakes his head.

If nothing else it is clear that Online Trainer has been trying to kill me.  The man is a walking supplement shop.  His body is filled to the brim with so many supplements that I forget what they all are.  And in the past he has sent them to me too.  Complete with recipes.  Take this with that, mix those ones together, all washed down with that one over there, at night, in the morning, 45 minutes before your work out, during your work out.  And those ones?  They're for after your workout.  Like, right after.  Mixing all of this together will make you stronger, leaner, faster, fitter, taller, thinner, better looking, increase endurance and alertness, probably make you smarter and happier with longer hair, thicker hair and bluer eyes, along with the sudden ability to speak four languages while bench pressing three times your body weight.  Not to mention those breezy one-handed pushups. 

As I recall, those supplements didn’t too much for my marathon though, did they?

Luckily I’m not as conscientious as he is and more often than not I forget to take them, or mix them, or mix them correctly, if at all.  Being slack may just save my life.

And now I have been instructed to get x-rays, I still have to see the Melanoma Professor, and finally return to the cardiologist for a stress test on the heart. 

Now that, my friends, is what could rightly be described as 'heeeectic'. 

Stay tuned.

[1] An ECG (electrocardiogram) is a medical test that detects cardiac (heart) abnormalities by measuring the electrical activity generated by the heart as it contracts. It can help diagnose a range of conditions including heart arrhythmias, heart enlargement, heart inflammation (pericarditis or myocarditis) and coronary heart disease.

Sydney: De-cluttering

I'm clearing out all of the clutter in my life. 

Unused towels, old magazines, outdated clothes, unworn shoes, empty boxes, chocolate (I do this by eating it - clever plan, I know), unridden Vespas.  Also endangered are expensive road bikes with possible flat tyres that look as though they're going fast even when they're simply propped up against a wall in the Study (or Library, as the Husband likes to call it - I suppose it does have books in it, and the requisite fireplace (unused of course)).  Pantry food past its use-by date is O-U-T.  That includes the peanut butter which would have apparently been best before October 2010.  Broken stuff, annoying stuff, stuff which I'd forgotten I even had, stuff that seemed to have snuck its way into my house without me even knowing.  Things I seem to have collected from when I was a small child; things I got just last week.  All junk, all gone.  Even friends are no longer safe.

You know the type.  The friends who aren't really friends.  The acquaintances, the pretenders, the sycophants, those who claim to be friends then immediately assume the position of Chief Authority of Gossip on the subject of You.  And don't get me started on Facebook Friends or worse, fellow Tweeters.  Particularly those Tweeters who consistently tweet relentless self-serving comments about - that's right, themselves - to an audience they don't even know, have never met and are never likely to meet.  An audience who probably doesn't even read their tweets because they themselves don't know the person they're following.  Or care what the person they're following has to say. Yet they follow each other.  It's a vastly strange, faceless social circle, the Twittersphere.

Don't get me wrong - I understand the value in a good tweet to raise awareness, build a business, enhance a profile, or find out if a loved one is safe in the middle of a natural disaster but I've never understood the random meaningless self-serving tweet to the unknown follower.

I know someone who has taken to tweets like a calf to the teet.  He tweets incessantly about all manner of God-knows-what all the time to what I am sure is a largely uninterested audience.  And then re-tweets other indiscriminate tweets from one of the other 338 tweeters he is following just in case one of his own unknown followers might be interested.  How thoughtful (yes, I'm being facetious).  But, he says defensively, there are Key Words you can use and all sorts of Tips and Tricks to Build A Following.  Look at me (me - you see?), I'm at 50 and growing, he proudly exclaims.

He's right.  He is at 50 and growing, but what's the point?  He has to sift through 338 other Tweeters' rubbish to find something apparently worth re-tweeting.  Imagine how time-consuming that must be?  

Maybe I'll conduct some Tweeter-testing myself, if I can ever find the time.  And you can even follow me on Twitter while I do it to see the results live yourself.  But first I lay down a challenge. Tweeters: have a reason for tweeting.  Beyond just time-wasting.

You had to get me started, didn't you. 

Back to gossip.  Strange though it may seem, gossip doesn't worry me too much.  After all as my wise mother once said, everybody gets talked about at some point and there's nothing you can do about it so why worry?  Too true.

I know people though who worry enormously about the spoken word; about any gossip said about them, even potential gossip that has not yet been uttered.  I used to be like that but in my defense, I was only 11.  I cared deeply about what other 11 year olds thought.  But as you grow older (and, apparently, I'm told, wiser), you care less about what people think of you and much more about living a full, well-rounded, meaningful life that is prosperous in a way that is significant to only you.  Because really, you are the one that cares about your life more than anyone else.  So it strikes me as an odd waste of time; worrying about something that may or may not be said by people you probably don't care too much about anyway on subjects which may include you that probably aren't even true.  And that we can't do anything about anyway.  So let them gossip.

What we can do something about though is the Broken Promises Friend.  Which is where the de-cluttering is headed.

Top of my current hit list is the Broken Promises Friend.  Or since everyone loves a good acronym these days, the BPF.  We all have at least one BPF stuck in our closet.  It might be a boyfriend, a sister, an in-law, a flat-mate, an ex-wife, a wayward parent, a boss/ally, a third cousin twice removed, that nice neighbour Dr Jekyll who turned into that nutjob Mr Hyde.  Or just someone you thought you'd call a friend but has since failed dismally in their assumed friend duties. 

Whoever it is doesn't matter because in my filing system any and all can be loosely filed in the Broken Promises Friend cabinet. And if your BPF cabinet is large -  overflowing even - then it's time to do something about it.  Lucky it's spring.  A good time for cleaning out I'm told.

It's remarkable what the BPF gets away with.  Minor fibs. Flippant lies. The elusive omission. Earnest promises of rectification.  Often they even believe their own earnestness.  I have spent quite a bit of time stealthily studying the BPF and one initial point to note is the glaringly obvious yet sneakily subtle reluctance (refusal even) to be locked into an End Date for Rectification of Misdeeds.  The canny BPF will rarely, if ever, be pinned down to an End Date for Rectification. That's not to say they won't earnestly promise not to repeat their misdeed.  They will.  Earnestly.  Repeatedly.  And with great contrition.  Because they're so so SO sooorrrryyyyyyy.  But whatever the BPF is earnestly promising repeatedly and sorrowfully not to do ever again they will actually still do again.  And again.  And again.  You. Just. Watch. 

My patience with this hasn't just worn thin; it's worn right out.  

I've decided that anyone who continually does this kind of thing is in fact no friend at all.  Gone. 

The broad definition of the BPF also encompasses that subset known as the Constructively Critical Friend (or the CCF).  A CCF is one who will candidly give you their Critical Opinion (usually unsolicited or sought) under the guise of Friendship.  It's what Howard Wolowitz* succinctly calls a N'egg (a negative statement that sounds like a compliment).  You're right to think the BPF is a shifty and complex character.

My ground-breaking, under-the-radar research on the BPF has unearthed some startling finds.  There are a lot out there, let me tell you.  And they're not always slinking in the shadows.  They might try to be helpful and friendly.  Some might even sit down and try to eat lunch with you.  They might even try to buy you lunch.  Be wary.

Here's a good example.  Recently when a friend of mine (a real one) got engaged she excitedly told the news to another friend of hers (obviously not a real one but a CCF in disguise).  The in-disguise CCF announced that while she was happy for my friend (a  clear BPF lie that will shortly become apparent), she herself would never want to get married - or even engaged for that matter (I imagine this was said with a slight condescending sniff) - and risk losing all her assets to the betrothed if the union failed.  Because, you know, 1-in-3 marriages end in heart-wrenching, asset-destroying demise (again said with a knowing and condescendingly sympathetic shake of the head).  That won't happen in your marriage of course (pretend laugh to soften the blow, accompanied by a sad, small regretful smile and a condescending pat of the hand), but it does happen.  All the time.  1 in every 3, They say (who, might I ask, are 'They'?).  It goes without saying this BPF is single.  

Or how about this for a corker?  Only this past weekend a smiling CCF perched itself (uninvited) at our table and - if you can believe it - proceeded to gush to another friend of mine (a real one) that it must be hard for my friend because her husband is just SO nice, like all of the time, and she is kind of, well you know, not the same.  You see the N'egg in that, don't you?

These BPFs - and it follows, CCFs - manage to camouflage themselves as friendly, smiling, personable, huggable people.  Often they like cheek-kissing and may even attempt the European two-cheek Hollywood-style air-kiss.  And then some of them, like the CCF above, manage to pull out such a doozy of a N'egg over an uninvited chicken and salad lunch that you're rendered just a little bit speechless. Mind you, the CCF would have preferred banana and honey on toast - Oh My God (dramatic roll of the eyes), my most favourite meal ever, the CCF gushes.  But I never eat it of course (a coquettish shrug of the shoulders).  Too many carbs.

As is always the way, you will naturally belatedly come up with all sorts of respectably nasty retorts wrapped in glorious wit but unfortunately later is just, well, too damn late.

Don't be too hard on yourself.  You like your BPF (some of you may even love your BPF) thus we allow more-than-the-usual amount of getting away with it.  We might even allow lengthy periods of getting off Scott-Free.  Years' worth.

If you're a nice person (apparently like my friend's husband but not like my friend) your only course of action is to clean out your BPF cabinet.

And that's why we're here. It may not be easy.  And like the warning the Protecting-My-Assets Single BPF above proffered to my recently engaged friend (protecting-my-ass, more like it), it might even be somewhat heart-wrenching to cut ties with your BPF.  It may take time and perseverance and not be without a tear or two (depending upon the level of closeness of your BPF).  But time heals all wounds and tomorrow is another day.  

And the good news? You now have room for potential, new (hopefully real) friends.  

Applications are now open.

* The Big Bang Theory: The Lizard-Spock Expansion (#2.8) (2008) episode. Howard is one of four resident geeks on The Big Bang Theory who falsely assumes he is attractive to women (he's not) and steadfastly believes he could be a womanizer if only given the appropriate chance (a feat more impossible than summiting Everest wearing a locally-made bikini, a pair of Havaianas, and carrying an iPhone for support since your foolproof plan is to use the Maps App to navigate your way, call for delivery pizza for sustenance, take snapshots which you hope to tweet to all of your unknown followers, and of course sensibly check the weather forecast). 

 

Waikiki: A Spot of Dehydration with your Run?

Performance is lacking. 

Except for day número uno (which technically was actually half a day given our lunchtime arrival, even though to keep the marital peace I'm magnanimously giving it full day status) I've been for a run every morning. In those pre-breakfast hours I'd like to describe my demeanor as bouncing out of bed, perky from a full nights' refreshing slumber, ready to stride along at pace in the early morning Hawaiian sunshine. 

That's what I'd like to tell you.  But I'd be lying. 

It actually goes like this. Blearily wake up.  Spend time over-analyzing the merits of a potential morning run versus the guilt and malaise of not going at all. Resignedly hoist body out of bed after less than ideal sleep (damn you, jet-lag, pre-dinner aperitifs, and enormous meal comprising enough food to feed a developing nation accompanied by a splash of your finest Californian white, plus the ever-present hard sell for dessert).

And I'm weak. It's not that much of a hard sell to get me into a dessert.

There is a suspicion that too much wine the evening before may actually impair performance. I know, not something I've ever heard of either.  But my less than Olympian efforts require some justification so it's worth exploring. 

The French promote a tipple as an aid to good health. I recently finished reading a book* which suggests that the aperitif-wine-dessert wine combination I stole from the French is in fact not only an aid to good health, but an aid to inspiring athletic achievement. 

To prove their robust theory, the French even host a marathon through the Bordeaux region where the winner's prize is his weight in wine. Evidently a reward worthy of running fast for, and about the only time when the more you weigh, the better.  Each water point - let's instead call them 'rehydration' stations - offer a selection of water, energy drinks, and crates of the region's most superior drop. As you can imagine, this type of marathon attracts highly-tuned athletes from far and wide.  Even the Kenyans and Ethiopians have been known to get in on the act.

I think this could be my kind of marathon.  

Quite possibly just the kind of marathon that may be able to tempt me out of retirement and straight into forging a spectacular comeback to the marathon scene after April's less than satisfactory performance. The scent of redemption hangs from the Bordelais grape vine. 

Foolishly I mention this in an email to Online Trainer. After all, reading the book was his idea, no doubt to entice me with an easy-breezy, wine-soaked 42km trot. Because of this, I expected Online Trainer to be enthusiastic about my interest; to offer a little general applause, perhaps even a touch of encouragement at being so brave as to allow my thoughts to stray into the realm of fresh challenges so soon after the last defeat.  

I was wrong.

Instead Online Trainer sensibly reminds me that, expensive French blends or not, 42km is still 42km. 

Hopes dashed. The romanticism of the Marathon du Medoc gone in a puff of boring reality.

Potential wine-soaked marathons aside, my current reality is wrestling with early morning holiday running motivation. And despite this daily tussle I am proud to say I have so far clocked up day after day of early morning runs.  My mother will complain that this is no holiday; that to run (or exercise at all for that matter) - particularly while on a holiday, for heaven's sake - is a folly that should be cut out immediately and replaced with far more enjoyable options. Like sleeping. Or lingering over breakfast. Or at a stretch, shopping (which is, arguably, exercise). 

I have shopped. Not at a real shop, mind you, but at an online one.  I have a new toy to keep me occupied on these runs. After a short visit to the App Store - conveniently located on my iPhone - for the absolute steal of $2.49 the Nike+ GPS app is now mine and allows me to record my every run. 

Gone are the days when I would simply send Online Trainer a short note stating "Run today - 12 songs worth". 

Now, just like a professional athlete, I too can enjoy reviewing all my stats. How far I have run. My fastest, slowest, and average pace displayed in real-time colour on a map recording my fastest pace in green (swift), slowing down through shades of oranges and reds as I tire (presumably to illustrate heat-inducing delirium). It will play my music or a selection of what it quaintly calls ‘Power Songs’. It will shout encouragement at regular intervals pre-recorded by Nike-sponsored athletes. It will allow me to make notes about my run (did you feel (a) awesome, (b) so-so, (c) sluggish, or (d) injured?).  I can log the weather, the type of surface I ran on, and receive a grand mileage total of all my runs to date which can be used to boost my running image.  And if this isn't enough, I can then upload the whole lot to the Nike website where it will provide me with trophies for achieving personal milestones and a myriad of ways of showing off my achievements to my friends.  Or even to people I've never met who happen to be logged in to the same website at the same time.

And all I have to do is press 'Go'. Talk about too much fun in just one app. 

So as I run along and suffer in the early morning Hawaiian summertime heat, sweating like a miner who has just worked a two-day shift in the pits of hell, I need not look at my watch or sully my brain with attempts to calculate distances or kilometre markers or how fast or slow I am running. I don't need to do any maths at all (which is fortunate because, given my challenges with arithmetic at the best of times, trying to count while even my brain sweats in the thousand percent humidity would make my life immeasurably difficult).  Instead I can soak up the ambiance and Enjoy The Scenery, as Online Trainer likes to say; take pleasure in a 'Smell The Roses' run (Online Trainer is nothing if not poetic).  Except this is Hawaii and there are no roses so it would have to be a Smell The Hibiscus run.

My route from the Halekulani towards Diamond Head takes in many of the famous tourist sights.  The new all-glass Apple store along the main street, for example, where I usually dodge several savvy backpackers leaning against the store's front glass wall, tapping away on their iPhones and stealing the store's free WiFi even though the store is shut.  The Cheesecake Factory, where the early-morning scent of freshly baked I-don't-know-what (and don't say 'cheesecake') is so sickly sweet that the Husband refuses to ever eat there, despite it being the fictitious place of employment for Penny in The Big Bang Theory. The famous statue of Duke Paoa Kahanamoku - the Duke - father of Surfing, eternally covered in fresh leis of heavenly-scented Frangipani.  And of course, the most famous of all, the entire length of Waikiki beach.

In these early hours it is peaceful; bathed in the soft, striking glow bestowed by a rising sun. The sand is groomed neatly and I watch as other early-rising tourists, also drawn toward the beach, amble along wearing what I can only assume is their version of sporting attire.  Square, ill-fitting baseball caps (recently purchased from the nearest ABC Store), barely-worn, shiny new, white leather New Balance trainers (circa Seinfeld) all the while clutching half a gallon of Starbucks' over-sweetened brew in their chubby little hands.  In fact, it almost looks like a Seinfeld episode.  And that man there looks almost like George Costanza.

Then there are the other runners.  Serious, fit, tanned, lean, mean running machines. Well, maybe not all of them.  Some are old, some are slow, some overweight, others dressed in what I would call way too many clothes for this kind of heat.  Some even stop and (*gasp*) walk. Certainly not a habit Online Trainer would appreciate me learning. 

Diamond Head Road is always the moment of truth though. A person can bounce along with all the verve in the world because all of Waikiki seems to be flat, flat, flat until you reach Diamond Head Road.  Either turn around now (which means a round trip of about 6.5km) or take a deep breath, bite the proverbial hill-running bullet, head towards the sun and run up that mountain.  It ain't no picnic, I can tell you.

Pushing on slows me right down.  Nothing like a big hill in a thousand degree early-morning heat to ruin a good average pace. That hill and this heat is enough to bring an Australian arriving from winter to tears.  But I'm deydrated enough; I can't squander any precious fluid on tears.

To take my mind off the uphill battle I like to indulge in a few negative thoughts.  You know the kind.  Ouch, the legs. Can't breathe.  Dying.  I know; oh, the wretchedness of running along a beach in the stifling humidity of a rising Hawaiian sun while Sydney becomes more and more damp, waterlogged and cold with every passing insufferably rainy day. Poor me.

At the top of Diamond Head Road

There are two fairly immediate things which make this daily odyssey all worthwhile though. One is the stunning view from the top - all crystal-topped frothy waves glistening like diamonds under the intensifying sun's rays.  The other is the blissful knowledge that the return journey comprises a downhill slope and a flat homestretch.  A few tiny moments which offer what I like to call a ‘showoff opportunity’ to pretend I am a real runner, flying along at speeds much faster than I can actually ever really hope to achieve (I know this because my Nike+ GPS app shows this section in bright green - swift).

And finally, when I return to the serenity of the Halekulani, I know concierge will be waiting to obligingly hand me an ice cold bottle of water (although for some reason they don't have this at the ready for the Husband), as I look forward to diving into the still blue waters of the freshly cleaned pool.  Clothes and all.

Post-run, post-swim, still in
gym gear.  Happy now.

*  Bon Appétit by Peter Mayle