Stout-Hearted Men

“The only person you should compete with is the person you were yesterday.” ― Prem Jagyasi

That was one killer work out, if I say so myself.

So last week I was in my gym, and I was wailing away on the heavy bag like Rocky Balboa pounding on a side of beef.

I was focused and mindful and I had flow coming out my ears. It was great.

Too often though I’ll get distracted at the gym, where I’m working my body, but my mind is stewing over something either in the past or something down the road—anywhere but the present moment.

I use an app called Precision Striking that features a boxing coach who calls out various combinations as a way of staying disciplined while burning a lot of calories.

And when I’m preoccupied or unfocused, invariably I'll screw up the combination, and then, of course, I'll get mad at myself and make more mistakes.

But it’s not just boxing. When I’m inattentive either on the job or when I’m meditating or writing, I’m wasting time and energy and doing inferior work. And then, once again, I’ll get angry.

I used to tell myself “I got distracted,” but that’s a lie. So much what we do is a choice at some level, even if we’re not aware of it.

Now when I catch myself slacking, I’ll say “I chose to be distracted.” No excuses, no finger-pointing.

So, why was so I really smoking during this particular workout? Let’s break it down.

My gym has four heavy bags of various sizes and shapes and since I work out early in the morning, I usually work my way around all four of them for variety.

On this morning, however, one of my gym buddies had shown up to do some work of his own.

He told me that that he had tripped in the street recently, injured his wrist, and thus would be working southpaw to protect his swollen hand.

Going the Distance

I wished him a speedy recovery and then we both got down to business.

I didn’t realize until later that I was working out so diligently because of my friend. Even though I like this man, I still had to show him what a badass I was.

Yes, I know. It's pathetic.

Now let me pause here and assure you that my boxing skills are atrocious and that I only do it because it’s a fantastic workout.

Frankly at this age I should probably be doing tai chi in the park, but my inner knuckle-walker stills wants to raise some hell.

I felt like such a twit. I am a long way from being a teenager—at least chronologically—but here I was getting all macho man crazy.

You shouldn’t need someone around you to work hard, I nagged myself. You should be diligent and disciplined on your own.

As I was wrapping up my last round, my boxing buddy came over to me.

“I just wanted to let you know about my wrist because I didn’t want you to think I was a pussy and going easy on the bag,” he said.

I paused. Oh, I thought, okay, so there are two idiots in this gym instead of one. Good to know. I assured my workout pal that I didn’t think anything of the kind—honestly.

It took a while, but I was finally able to laugh at myself, the silly senior citizen determined to show the world that he’s a tough guy.

What I’m trying to do now is keep that same intensity from last week’s workout, the same energy and the same tight combinations—only take out that competitive aspect.

Maybe I should pretend there’s another guy nearby at all times.

Yes, by all means, you should dance like nobody’s watching, but box like you’re in the middle of Times Square.