50

50

            I've always had skinny legs I have. I always hated running at school. I hated the cold days, the rain and shorts. Those shorts I had to wear, displaying my skinny legs for all to see. Weak. That's exactly how I felt. I had skinny legs, not to mention my small wrists and girl-like hands, and I was weak. Not a man. I was just interested in questions; where am I? What is going on? Why have I woken up to find myself in this life? Questions. Questions, I knew I had something of a flair in that domain, I thought like other kids didn't think, I was different.  

These legs of mine though, that's a different story, I was somewhat baffled that they even kept me up right, scrawny, stiff, clumsy. I remember running to avoid the fight I was in from finishing with me on the floor getting kicked and stamped on. Even though I could have taken those four lads, I had been training after all and they were weak, I could feel it energetically, fear had got the better of me and I'd received some digs in the process, so I was running. My legs gave way, stumbling and stretching out the stumble like they do in a Marx Brothers film; nearly going, nearly going. I managed not to fall. Still, my legs were weak, they let me down. Being entered into the 400 meters at a county level by my PE teacher I started off sprinting, I was way ahead of the other lads! Well, of course I was, untrained athletes like us weren't meant to sprint the 400 meters, I burnt myself out to soon, I came last, each boy overtaking me, each time a nail in the coffin of the self-esteem of my legs. Don't worry chaps, at least you can support me while I sit and read.

            So here we are; it's time for 50 Hindu Squats, capital letters are a must, a semiotic representation of the grand challenge that this exercise is for me. Legs. Fucking legs, I hate exercising them, exercising my weak legs and the shaky uncomfortable feeling of the possibility of falling over while I do so, the quad muscles giving up and me falling down. 50 Hindu Squats . . . what's the fucking point? Might as well give up now.

            Placing my feet, finding my balance, closing my eyes and raising my arms in front of me; I breathe in and start to lower my body until my thighs are parallel with the floor. I move slowly and exhale on the way back up. One. Breathing back in, feeling into my body I repeat, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Slow, measured, precise. I can feel the slight shifts in my weight, sometimes there's more on my right leg, the stronger of my twigs, a way of avoiding weakness again, in a subtle yet still afraid way. I adjust, centre, allowing gravity to pain both the left and right, slowly and exacting I feel the work. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, breathing in time with my movement, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Here I notice the conditioning of my bench press work come in; I never do more than fifteen reps, preferring a heavy weight and low repetitions. I hear a voice inside me "Time to stop now, that's enough for today."

No it isn't, keep going. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, I can feel my legs warming and my back starting to ache (a carry-over from my seated meditation practice), nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, slow, steady, feeling into my awareness, feeling into my energy levels, feeling into my muscle, twenty-four, twenty-five. "Ok, 25, that's a good number, just do 25 Rich, you haven't worked your legs in ages, this is a good way back in, do more another day, 25 is fine." No! I'm doing fucking fifty! This isn't about my legs, this is about my mind, my ability to hold tension. It's not hurting enough yet, the real exercise hasn't even begun.

Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, thirty; my breathing is getting more laboured and a dull heat is building in my legs, generalised, vague and cloud-like, letting me know these stalks of mine are out of shape and yawning back into life, foggy-headed; like I am in the morning when my sleep is out of alignment. Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, I'm entering more fully into the moment, my mind nowhere else than where I am and the challenge I'm imbibing. Thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven, it's getting tough, I want to give in. Thirty-eight, thirty-nine. Forty.

"Just do 40, forty is good enough now Rich. Come on, you only thought you'd do twenty-five so forty is a brilliant number, well done mate! You can rest and be happy now."  I buy it. I bite the hook for a split second. "Yeah, forty, fantastic! What a great way to get back into touch with exercising my legs." I buy the deceptive voice of self-congratulation. I take refuge in a positive self-appraisal, believing happiness is there. I straighten my legs, it stops the shaking, stops the discomfort of this slow burn. Fuck. Get back down there! Do fifty, not forty. In that split-second I notice what's happened.

When Buddha sat under a tree and vowed to look into the deepest aspects of himself there was distractions. After the scary stuff, the armies sent from hell, and so forth, came the good stuff. The pretty women. The things we all yearn for, fame recognition, adoration, praise. At this stage of his life and growth he forsake them and in my own little way I need to forsake praising myself for doing forty Hindu Squats (they still need the capital letters at this point) and do just ten more. My body starts to lower again. I start to feel discomfort again.

"Just ten more. Not much is it Rich, only ten more? Wow, a real hero you are, aren't you mate? You think that's impressive do you? Fucking ten more, you must be a real tough guy now huh? Big deal if you do fifty, you can't do even two-hundred, if you had anything about you, you'd do two-hundred; like a real man. A strong man. Not the little pussy that you are. You always were weak, Rich. You and your skinny little legs."  Now the distraction has changed, one last final effort. After distracting me with compliments and praise, pretending to be on my side, my ego comes back at me with words that hit sore-spots. For some reason I see a plate of nearly-finished baked beans; I rarely even finished a meal when I was younger, so what makes me think I can finish this? I feel sad and defeated, reminded of all those less-than-eaten meals.

Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three. "This is too much, I don't like pain." At this point I get the distinct and demoralising feeling that Life is too much for me, the macrocosm of Existence is boiled right down into my Bambi-like shaky legs and I just feel like crying . . . or shouting and calling the world a fucking unfair cunt. I watch, I'm aware. I know from experience that these are only my thoughts and I also know that they can be too god-damn believable. I relax and open my being, I don't contract around my pain as much as my habit-mind wants me too.

Forty-four, forty-five, keep going, keep going. Forty-six, forty-seven; nearly there!! I've done it! I'm start to feel triumphant. Now my mind is celebrating. It is prematurely taking me away from the reality of the moment. Just another way of avoiding. Just another way of creating false security with my mind. Be aware Rich, bring your mind back to what is. . .

Forty-eight,

forty-nine . . .

 . . . fifty.