Chapter one
I wrote this in the wake of our work on Justice League in 2016, as well as a series of other chapters cataloging the events that somehow qualified my position at the time. I wrote this in large part to try and understand what I understood. This is about my experience, as a self-taught coach and an honest self-assessment analyst. It had very little to do with my client at the time, he was simply the medium. Our business, for the last ten years has been about changing people; and the only reason we were able to do it was because we were willing to change ourselves. This—hopefully—illuminates that.
It’s sunny out, which is strange for an English spring afternoon. The light is contradicting what my brain’s expectations of London is, and I’m not fully paying attention to what Henry is telling me, but by his tone, I can tell it’s going to be difficult to convince him of my plan. The glare off of the red laminate counters is causing me to squint, drawing a stark contrast to the black rubber mats that absorb all the light and smell like an Eastern European factory. All of this sensory input isn’t enough to keep me from wondering about the coffee I just made.
I can tell by just the smell that it isn’t my best, I’m wondering if it is from the unusual, convex, espresso tamp that threw off the 25lbs of pressure I needed in order to get a full flavor profile from such a mid-range bean. It seems unfair to have such a mediocre result after so much practice. The time I’ve spent on the skill of making coffee seems worthless in the face of such an astringent result. I secretly blame Pricey, the owner of the gym that we are currently using, despite his ADD, his hospitable Irish demeanor makes it easy for us to sit here contemplating over coffee in a completely empty gym. As much as I like him, my resentment shines through; I’m pretty sure he could give no fucks about whether his coffee beans are hand-picked or of single origin. Before I get a chance to rant internally about the importance of sourcing quality coffee beans, my thought is interrupted by the need to answer a question; Henry is asking what the plan is for the day, I nod coherently and predicate an answer with a question of my own about whether he thinks his Americano is over-brewed.
From the tone of the question, I can tell it’s the reaction or hesitation of not wanting to train, at least not wanting to partake in anything that requires resolve. The diet has just kicked him like a mule might if he were standing directly behind one. With dietary blunt-force trauma comes despair, excuses for lethargy, and an unwillingness to do what you might know needs to be done. Most people don’t realize it—much like he might not in this mood—but our own perception dictates much of what we are capable of. Simply smiling when things get hard can change our outcome dramatically. I’m smiling now but it isn’t changing the amount of disappointment I have for the cup of liquid that I’ve decided to just hold onto; like most, I’m immune to my own advice.
I have extreme compassion for the feeling of suffering, but I am terrible at showing empathy in these situations — he would probably agree. After working on what amounts to be a repeated cycle for years, between gaining weight and losing weight, building strength and physical capability, and addressing injuries we are on the third installment of his character as Superman. With it comes the most pressure we have ever faced together, to outperform anything that we have achieved in the recent past. The scene dictates that the majority of his time on screen will be shirtless. This has radically changed our approach, as it requires at the very least a consistent body composition for the better part of a month. The tension and the pressure have resulted in a somewhat resentful relationship, I am the bringer of pain, the director of suffering, and he has no choice but to give in, that is, if he trusts me.
Some people might get the idea that I’m masochistic, perhaps even feeling gratification from enforcing deprivation. This only gets confused perhaps because I know the result is so tightly correlated to one’s ability to sustain and persevere when most are so willing to quit in the discomfort. The success may in fact be just a culmination of how well one can “keep it together” when one wants so badly just to lie at home and eat pizza. The smile I show when I can see someone’s pain through self-inflicted effort is the same that one might show when receiving a good hand in poker, it isn’t prophetic but certainly increases the likelihood of our sought after result, a proverbial pair of aces in a world that bluffs its way to success.
Thirty minutes into our session and I still haven’t broken the news to him that today is going to be hard, that it’s time to “pull the pin” as we like to say, remarking on how a hard workout resembles the feeling of a closely detonated grenade. We both lack military experience in which to actually compare this, but there is something reminiscent of self-immolation and going all-out on the Assault bike (a medieval-looking fan bike) that tends to leave no appendage un-afflicted, along with the torching of the muscles comes the same deafness that an explosion might cause. Now there is no secret, he tilts his head questioningly at me, as he just caught me staring at the bike that sinisterly sits in the corner of the room. He sighs, somehow realizing that I won’t be convinced this day on adjusting the plan, meanwhile I'm wondering just how much money I would lose in a game of poker, given my inability to conceal my hand. But the question returns, this time in a more irritated fashion—like when a car salesman won’t just tell you the price of a car—“Sooo what are we doing today?”
The worry of our future pain is the cause of most of our suffering, as Seneca once remarked, “He who suffers before it is necessary suffers more than is necessary”. This is in part why during these special projects, that I keep training a secret until the day of, that and the ability to change the plan without the look of manipulation. This message gets definitively misinterpreted in the media, usually glorifying training as being brutal, dangerous, or hyper-masculine and equal to “more effective”. This of course is wholly untrue—not in the sense of how difficult some training can be, but in how we make things more difficult than they need be—simply in order to brag about it later during a fitness magazine interview, or an Instagram post. It also gets perceived that changing the look of your body, becoming a better version of yourself is just the result of some algorithm, a complex equation that can be figured out if only we all had a higher level of math comprehension. Perhaps this idea persists because trainers desire the kind of respect that those who plan the mission to mars get, like counting repetitions are the same as rocket trajectories.
We as people look to avoid pain, more so than even seeking pleasure. This is not something we always directly control but a byproduct of our subconscious seeking an “easy life”. Knowing this doesn’t really make it easier either; there is no amount of education or knowledge that directly results in a more coherent agreeable “self”. There will forever be a deep gulf between knowing of and knowing about. The only seemingly positive influence involved in the task of using suffering as a catalyst for change is to repeatedly do that which we do not want to. Making difficultly a habitual practice is the more important exercise when compared to anything that we might consider for physical change, simply imposing our will on the original hesitation to not do so can rewrite the complacency of our previous selves. Yet, most Google searches reveal the joke and reality of our work ethic: “secret celebrity workout”, “how to get abs in 6 weeks”, “fitness foods that shred fat”. I look at Henry, knowing this moment will be later fictionalized—embellished by a fitness writer trying to sell advertising for magical supplements—how does it go? “I am jack’s ironic sense of accomplishment.”
Ten minutes of easy spinning on this inglorious bike and I try to let him down in the best way I know, by gently describing the time domain required and by also letting him have some choice in some of the movements. It seems this is an often overlooked aspect of persuasion, everyone is more willing if they believe they had some sort of input, even if we all agree about how horrible the choices are—the democratic process somehow comes to mind. I usually pick the movements that I know he won’t, but in this case, I refrain from choosing a burpee or its many variants (quite possibly his most hated exercise), alternatively, I pick something seemingly benign: a 70kg medicine ball carry. In this case, when it is preceded by a short 20-30 second hard sprint, it becomes an implement that allows one to explore just how terrible “walking” can feel; especially when being compounded with multiple rounds and very little rest. After the sprint, the body demands a high amount of oxygen to cover the debt that was just incurred, this call happens right about the 10-meter mark of the walk, when one can feel in shocking detail just what it’s like to inhale with what equates to a grown man on top of each breath.
The music is loud but no matter how high the volume is we cannot overcome how deafening our internal motivation for quitting is. This is the answer to: “why do I have to do this?” It is the practice of not quitting—a skill for which there are no masters. I’ve watched and participated in this process more times than I can count. Predictably, I haven’t and don’t always succeed, but seeing these actions displayed in front of me now makes me surprisingly sympathetic. I’m watching a friend suffer, I have the ability to make it stop, and yet I don’t—is this sociopathy?
It is now the 5th time through this circuit and he is peeling himself off the bike, the initial snap of power he displayed on the count of 3-2-1-GO is all but absent. He is struggling to get a grip on the gigantic rubber ball filled with what seems to be lead, fighting to hold on as the sweat produces a slick surface that furthers a frustrating battle to keep hold of it for more than 10 seconds at a time. This triples the number of times he has to pick it up off of the ground, a real-life Sisyphus; each time his back is rounding a bit more, every slip and failure causing his temper to rise, making an inconvenient use of what little calories he has left to burn.
I let my silence speak for me during the rest periods; it is the loudest message I can send. It allows one to hear the negotiation without my interruption of empty, hopeful promises like shouting “almost there!” Flimsy motivational reminders do little—cheerleading is just a pathetic attempt to not empathize. Seeing coaches clap and yell just reminds me of those dancing monkey toys that bang two symbols together and seem to be just as useless. The quiet blank stare and echo of heavy breathing are a sure way to hear the moment we are after. With 15-seconds left of the rest period I know we have arrived by his panicked question “How many more rounds?” he utters in between gasps. He is either done or he has intuitively picked up on a numerical pattern. The trap of programming a workout often falls victim to prime and even numbers, 3-5-7, 10-20, etc. a side-effect of OCD commonly found in meatheads who have a fascination with the idiosyncrasy of sequences.
I decide on compassion and inform him that it was in fact the last round, wishing that he could have made it to 7, but knowing if I said 6 he would see through my alteration as a condition based on his performance or lack thereof. The risk is that this could ultimately cause a negative reflection on what he thinks he is capable, again we are at the mercy of our own perception; falling short and knowing it reinforces the feeling of helplessness, making it even harder the next time we go down this road to dig inside one’s own reserve—to pull the fucking pin. I have learned through a myriad of mistakes that those you guide need to accelerate out of the door not fall out of it.
I’m cleaning up the equipment that is sprawled across the floor, he is parked on a flat black bench, constantly switching between laying back on the corrugated aluminum and leaning forward to rest his elbows on the top of his thighs—an anxious unsettledness. The discomfort of hard effort is strange, when it hits me in a similar way I get the nagging feeling that I need to take my shoes off, claustrophobia induced by your body’s search for oxygen. We have only exchanged a few raised eyebrows—a non-verbal acknowledgement that the session was indeed “spicy”. I can’t help but think during moments like this if it will be my last day, Henry will most certainly decide on his way home that there is no need for this, that it is either not worth the cost, or that I am simply a bully looking to punish the good looking actor type with humiliation, the workout equivalent of being forced into a locker as a school child. We have always been clear with our intention on these jobs: we train ability first, through devastatingly difficult mental trials, thorough conversation, self-assessment, and an infinite amount of trust and care. It doesn’t have to be like this. We could pump blood into the muscle belly, repeatedly with very minimal resistance, eat boiled chicken and brown rice, take a fiber supplement and loads of stimulants, cut the water out, and prance this actor on stage to pretend he is physically capable, much like they do at muscle pageants (bodybuilding shows).
Some consider our style of training to be humiliating because there is nowhere to hide the ego. Others might say using popular methods that have the incapable dancing on stage in a sequined Speedo to be more cringe-worthy. I think humiliation is a result of the stories we have told ourselves, unwanted truth slapped across what we deem as reality, after all, no one is humiliated during a workout that didn’t think themselves capable in the first place. It is important for Henry to understand that this is voluntary, it can end at any time, all you have to say is mercy. But me knowing the volitional nature of our agreement doesn’t keep my insecurity at bay; so I have arranged for his lunch to proceed directly after training, I’ll claim it as the “recovery window”, but know this tactic as job security because it is hard to hold a grudge against those that feed you.
The chemicals involved post-training become noticeably potent, after about 15-minutes the silence gives way to an emotional high that is all but spewed out in a display of word-vomit. This is the soft mushy center that lets me know that we did what needed to be done, a signal that the “meat” is tender and ready for seasoning. The change happens when the realization of the senses returns, we will feel more alive at this moment, more honest with ourselves and others, all because we picked some stuff up and moved around at a rate that made us uncomfortable in our own skin. The amount of personal evolution that occurs in such simplicity is hard to fathom. This is not a metaphysical state despite others’ supernatural treatment of it. It doesn’t hurt that we have a huge hormonal dump and an emotional reaction, halfway responsible for a feeling of euphoria, but also semi-liable for the need to be sociable in this moment of rebirth. The joke, back when I was first starting out as a trainer was about clients who “drunk-dial” us after unusually hard sessions, usually expressing gratitude for what anyone from the outside would describe as torture.
Battles like this will take place almost on a daily basis for the entirety of a project, not just ones with excruciatingly hard workouts, but my internal war of wondering whether I’m doing the right thing at the right moment. This is counterintuitive to my position of being “in control” of the process. The physical results that appear on screen in front of millions is a side effect of what we are really after, psychological mastery. Of which I have very little.
I’m smiling now because listening to Henry talk about lifestyle changes and what he wants to accomplish is a signal that this process goes beyond a shirtless scene—even if it is a temporary state induced by a surge of epinephrine—it puts a checkmark on one day of many. It isn’t about becoming some glorified standard of health and fitness, a banner with a six-pack. We aren’t trying to perpetuate the number of people who will order sprouted bread or increase the disillusionment of the population equating fitness with piety—who see drinking a kale shake as some sort of divinity. We are looking to share what the benefits of pushing oneself physically can teach us about our inner workings, our relationships, our habits, and even our desires. Shifting our preconceived notions of what we are capable of, in essence making the world more accessible, better traveled, a Laissez-faire life experience.
I can tell by his resolve and reluctance to return to his normal life that he is proud of his effort, and in turn, I am proud of him too. I recognize far too soon that this is only a snapshot, a hopeful glimpse in a dreadfully long process. I am quickly becoming overwhelmed by my own internal dialogue, the panic usually hits ironically at positive times, reminding myself that I don’t belong here, that I am unqualified, that it is the trapping of opportunity, a hand played well out of a credit limit.
I lay back and remember the journey thus far, the ups and downs, what worked, what didn’t, it is a flashback required if I am to predict the future of this project. The recollection, however, is an ability that is not always welcomed. Being taken back requires more than just glorifying the past, it takes a sick sense for the truth. My uncertainty here is nothing new, in fact, uncertainty has plagued me for as long as I can remember. How far we have come when we can sell to the masses what still plagues us.
