Kipworld

I’m a pretty inert individual. I subscribe to the why stand when you can sit, why sit when you can lie down school of thought. I’m skinny only because I’m still coasting from a brief bout of fitness in junior high.

When I was in sixth grade, we started doing those national physical fitness ratings during phy ed. You can either get the national award or the Presidential. Or nothing at all. The rating was based on one’s time in the mile, number of pullups, shuttle run, pushups and situps. I didn’t care at all. Growing up, I’d realized early that I wasn’t made for sports. Usually during recess while the other guys were playing pickup football or basketball, my best friend Jason and I were prowling around the playground with our own games. Like eating stuff on the ground. Or the time we played Blackjack using leaves and stones as chips and Mr. Solsrud made us sit out the rest of recess on the porch for “gambling.”

We were inseparable growing up. People thought we were brothers, even though we look nothing alike. In those days I was taller than him, he was stronger than me. I got better grades, but he got along with people better. Those are the factoid stats we’d have, had we been trading cards.

I still remember the day in sixth grade when it came time to do the first shuttle run. When Jason’s turn came, he went to the line. “Go!”

Most people turn in shuttle run times of 15 or 17 seconds. Jason did it in 11. Recess that day, the other guys asked him to play football with them. I went along. They’d give him the ball. He’d outrun everyone and score a touchdown. And again.

Somewhere, somehow, he’d grown taller than me.

My role in these games was to rush the quarterback. After the snap, I’d count to 5 banana and then I’d get to cross the line of scrimmage. I had no understanding of how the game worked (although I wondered why the players on TV never had to count to 5 banana) but I played anyway.

My course became clear. Get a physical fitness award. Of course, this was a little harder than I expected. First of all, I couldn’t do a pullup, which was required for the Presidential. However you could just do the flex arm hang for over 30 seconds for the national. I set my bar a little lower.

I didn’t come close in sixth grade. In seventh grade, I managed to do everything needed for the national award (I was the best in the class at flexibility due to my tae kwon do stretches, oooo) until the last one. The situps. You had to do 80 in a minute for Presidential. I managed to squeak out 48. Jason was holding my feet down. He knew I was pissed at myself when I didn’t make it.

i vowed to do it in eighth grade. I started doing situps before I went to bed. I would start a stopwatch and do situps. The first night I only did 50. But soon I was up to 60, then 70. I added pushups to the mix. 5 sets of 10. Regular, then fist.

My dad was overjoyed. I had shown no interest in fitness up to this point but now here I was, working out for half an hour every night.

My guide for working out was a book my Uncle Peter had given to my brother on his 15th birthday. The Men’s Health Guide to Working Out, which detailed not only a fitness plan but also the proper way to shave, dress, and woo the ladies. Inside it described body types (ectomorph, mesomorph and endomorph). My brother had looked through it, laughed, and put it on his shelf. I took it down and read through it in an afternoon (lots of pictures). Since I didn’t have access to the Men’s Health Weights, I used the heaviest volume of the encyclopedia. I nursed dreams of being cut like Bruce Lee and saying, “Yeah, really hit the books to get like this.”

My dad was so supportive of my workout efforts that he purchased an all in one gym for me at Sam’s Club. We spent about a week putting it together. Some pieces were missing, but that didn’t faze us. We improvised. He was bursting with pride as we twisted the final nuts and bolts holding the gym together. The next night, we used it for about an hour.

I didn’t touch it after that. It wasn’t that I was ungrateful. It just wasn’t in my room. Having a whole setup like that just didn’t fit with the story I had in my head. The scrappy book pumper, Presidential fitness award winner.

Physical fitness test time rolled around. I launched into each test. I ran the mile. I sped through the shuttle run. I did the pushups with ease. The situps didn’t stress me out. Then came the pullups. I needed two to get the Presidential award. I was lifted to the bar. I lowered myself gingerly. My tiny arms strained to lift my 80 lb body just two agonizing feet. My legs kicked. If they touched the wall, I’d have to start over. The guys who were finished already started shooting baskets. Jason stood there, waiting for me.

“I can’t do it,” I yelled to Mr. Wolf, the gym teacher. “Let me do flex arm hang.”

I did the 30 second of arm hang and dropped down. I’d gotten the national fitness award. Gradually I stopped the situps at night. Then lowered the pushup sets. Left the encyclopedia on the shelf.

Which takes me more or less to where I am today. I’m a pretty inert individual. But for 3 months when I was thirteen, I had the Presidential SOUL fitness award. And that was enough.