Straining to complete a final set of lifts at the gym I soak up encouragement from my personal trainer, Ahmed, a twenty-something-year-old body builder of Moroccan extraction.  Without his presence, I know I’d have quit at number 8 or 9.  Not only that, but I’d surely have chosen to lift a lighter load.

     “Go, go, go! Ten, eleven AND twelve!” he exclaims, as I shakily place the barbell back on the stand, spent.  

     Not many contexts allow a retired professional, a person of private education and reasonable wealth, to be ordered around by a high school grad, a kid struggling to pay his rent, a person whose world view is limited, at best.

     “Next we work on your abs,” Ahmed says, guiding me to a medieval-looking contraption.  “Hold here,” he says, handing me grips.  “Feet on this,” he directs.  “Now, BEND!”

     I feel my innards rebel.  “Could this really be good for me?” I wonder.  But I comply.  After a set I feel good.  I feel satisfied.  I feel a sense of accomplishment, albeit with some trembling around the ribs.

     The gym charges me $70 an hour to use Ahmed one hour each week.  After the first several sessions, when everything was new to me, he hasn’t taught me much.  He mostly sits at my feet or stands at my side and counts to ten or fifteen, as needed.  He offers encouragement.  He watches.  He occasionally makes a small change to my form.

     Sometimes, Ahmed asks me things I assume everyone already knows, like “How often are presidential elections?”  “Does a grapefruit taste different from an orange?”

      However, when I think about it, I realize I ask him things that are just as basic in his realm, like “Why do my legs seem to gain more strength than my arms?”  Ahmed patiently explains it has to do with the size of the muscles.  “How is working with barbells different from dumbbells?” He explains is has something to do with isolating each arm or leg (dumbbells) instead of letting them work together. (barbells)

     I recall college days when my soccer team herded into the weight room for a portion of practice one day each week. We complained.  We stalled.  We fooled around and lifted much less than we could have.  And it was FREE!  How inconceivable to PAY to be put through a workout.  A classic instance, perhaps, of “youth wasted on the young.”

                                                            *****

          Ahmed sips energy drinks while work together.  His diet seems to consist of caffeine and whey.

     “Did you party when you were young?” he asks, while I catch my breath.

     “Not really,” I say, not wanting to reveal the true answer of “never.”

     “College must have been wild,” he says, wistful.

     “A long time ago,” I say, wistful in a different way.

                                                            *****

     The end of my six-month contract to work with Ahmed is approaching.  I’d signed up with the goal of forestalling the annual one percent loss of muscle mass that is associated with aging.  I also wanted to work on flexibility and balance.  The latter two goals have receded in favor of Ahmed’s emphasis, namely: “You’re gonna have GUNS, man!” referring, I think, to my modestly growing biceps.

     I could probably continue to progress and complete workouts without Ahmed.  But how can I cancel him?  He is at the gym seven days a week.  He’s ALWAYS there.  He’d be hurt.  I’d have to switch to another gym. He offers me fist-bumps whenever I see him.

     “We’re gonna get you on the cover of a magazine,” he enthuses.

     “AARP?” I ask.

     “What’s that?” asks Ahmed.