“Come back baby, rock and roll never forgets.”

Someone asked me recently, ‘Bobby, how are you going to translate this personal training certification thing?” Good question. I knew going into it that I wasn’t what you would call a “showroom trainer” type. I don’t have a 28 inch waist, a man bun, and I don’t feel like hanging around a gym for 16 hours a day for not much money. That was for sure. What I am, is a 71-year-old man who just happens to be in the best shape of his life. The body never forgets.

And what I’m interested in, is sharing with people in my demographic, that no matter how long you’ve been out of shape, what types of abuse you’ve committed against yourself, the machine you were born with never forgets how to respond to proper care and feeding.

In August of 2016, I tipped the scales at a plump 228 pounds and I had a deadness behind my eyes. In a word, I was cooked. I was finally sick enough, and tired enough, to try and rally my fat ass back to the world of the living.

I laced up my sneakers in an effort to realize just that. I remember one night, looking in my bathroom mirror and thinking “pear”. My upper body resembled a pear. No lines, no muscle and no definition. Sad. How did I get like this? That type of biofeedback has a devastating effect on the psyche.

My main goal with copious amounts of exercise, was to knock myself out all day so I could sleep at night. After everything I had been through, I was begging for mercy. Exercise would be my ticket. It was. And it wasn’t long either, before I started seeing a return on my investment. Sweat equity.

I dove headlong into a Spartan lifestyle, where it was damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.

The changes came fast and furious. Exercise is it’s own benefit. My blood pressure plummeted, my resting heart fell to the low 60’s. My complexion got healthier looking and the curse of all men, the waistline, drew itself in. Precious sleep came in abundance.

I was thinking clearer and loaded with gratitude. I decided to do something constructive to reinforce the new gift of me, to me: certification as a fitness professional through the National Academy of Sports Medicine.

I had to rouse many a dormant brain cell in that process. Ouch!

Fast forward one year:  I am living in Arizona 40 pounds lighter in body and loads lighter in spirit. Which brings me to my point. While working out yesterday at my gym, I noticed Kyle, a personal trainer friend of mine giving assessments to a couple of older ladies. Late fifties, early sixties and pretty much out of shape.

When you join LA Fitness, you get a free session in hope that you will sign on for more sessions with that personal trainer. I said hello as I normally do, the four of us had some light banter before I went along my way.

Kyle is 24 and not an ounce of fat on him. Unless you count the bun. 🙂 He told them who I was and that I was a newly certified personal trainer. They called me last night looking to engage my services. Seems they would rather be trained by someone they can more readily identify with.

It’s hard to relate to someone who’s never carried an extra pound. Which is why I wrote this piece. It’s my age group that needs help. I’s my contemporaries that need to understand that all is not lost. That it’s doable. There is hope. And more importantly, you don’t have to travel to Sparta.

So it seems to be working out. (Forgive the pun). By telling my story and making myself available, hopefully, a lot of older folks like me, will benefit. If I translate it properly.

Please note: I welcome comments that are offensive, illogical or off-topic from readers in all states of consciousness.

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