Biceps Booze Balance

Illustration by Wiktoria Orlicka

Would the opening of pubs and clubs make the newfound gym bunny within me hop away? I needed time, but eventually, I found a place for fitness to thrive amid freedom.

Words by Seán McGill

Icould have cried. Externally, the tears would have signified the sheer joy of being surrounded by pals once again with a crisp pint. Telling stories, singing songs, laughing at terrible patter. Internally, I was trying to hold back a rising tide of emotion that was far less jubilant. It took a while to find safe passage over those choppy waters, but now, the relationship I’ve formed between mind and body is tranquil.

Getting into fitness hit me out of nowhere. A year on, I remain unsure of why I awoke on that Tuesday morning with a fresh hobby, but I did. The devotion poured into my new pastime was to do just that, to pass the time, accommodated greatly by the monotony of lockdown restrictions.

I could cut out a sizeable chunk of the day by going on a run. My legs may only have carried me for a maximum of thirty minutes, though the hours of wheezing flat-backed on the front grass would see late morning become mid-afternoon in no time at all.

And then when gyms reopened, having cockily conquered cardio to such a degree that my delusions were yearning for a last-ditch Tokyo Olympics bid, I set upon a new challenge. Quickly, the incremental yet consistent progression that comes with weight training gave me a fresh facet of the fitness frenzy that I had single-mindedly enshrouded myself within.

Without the lure of the pub - where stools lay unmoved, jukeboxes untouched - I went months without drinking, driven by a thirst to lift heavier and run faster. But as the country opened up, and stools once again screeched across sticky floors, and jukeboxes began to be illuminated by the push of a one-pound coin, my mind raced faster than my legs ever could. Would too many Tennent’s tilt the trajectory of my lifting power in the opposite direction? Would a Wednesday morning hangover mean I was squatting by the toilet instead of squatting in the gym? Would a doner kebab on the way home (sweet chilli AND garlic mayo, if you’re wondering) see my progress evaporate just as quickly as I had devoured the salty, sticky sensation. The answers to these questions weren’t initially apparent to me. Eventually, I could rebut each of them with a resounding ‘no’. A simple saying that immediately struck a chord with me was, “it’s not about what you do all of the time, it’s about what you do most of the time.” A great thing about fitness is that you’re not on anyone’s time. It’s about you. So go for a few drinks. Spend the following day in bed fighting off the flashbacks of divulging thoughts you meant to keep in confinement. Then get back on the treadmill when you’re ready. Progress doesn’t disappear overnight, no matter how messy.

After the seclusion and isolation we’ve had to endure, it’s not dumbbells or marathons that provide us with true strength. True strength comes from embracing those around us, from forming connections, from doing the things that we love. Everything in moderation? Not everything. Embracing, forming, doing – these aren’t things to be done in moderation. Binge on them to your heart’s content.

Would too many Tennent’s tilt the trajectory of my lifting power in the opposite direction?