Well here it is, another new year and once again here I sit trying to muster up the motivation to get up off my flabby arse and actually get in some sort of decent shape this year. 

Wasn't that long ago that I was running 3 miles or more three times a week. Not bad for a guy in his 40s, I told myself. Wasn't until the doctor showed me my X-ray with a touch of arthritis in my lower back that I realized running did nothing but aggravate it and I should probably find a new form of exercise. So now I'm reduced to a fast walk, jog, saunter, mosey kind of thing. Kind of sad actually. 

My wife offers to come along but then we have to stop every three houses to shake hands and kiss babies. It's like she's running for office. Before ya know it I'm cracking a beer and enjoying a cigar on someone's patio. That's why I like to exercise alone. Put on the iPod and go. People see you with that on and they know you mean business.

Ever notice, at the big box-type gyms, that all the pretty girls always wear a personal listening device of some sort? That's not for music. In the gym world that's the universal sign for "Don't talk to me! I'm training for the Arnold and I could kick your butt, Mr. divorced real estate guy." I used to belong to a gym where there were times I'd actually pass by some of the personal trainers outside the front door smoking. Can you believe that? And one guy was like 50 pounds overweight. OK, here's a little rule I have: If you're gonna train me, you have to be in better shape than me. I'm silly that way. Is that asking too much?

The only thing more annoying is trying to get in your 30 minutes on the stepper (level 9, mind you) and one of the help is microwaving their break time lunch/dinner.  Ten thousand-square-feet of people trying to work off the excesses of food and a couple of buttons and a minute thirty later you're at Hunan garden. Thanks Suzy. 

There are other signs you may belong to a bad gym. For instance, you know you belong to a bad gym when the exercise bike has a banana seat. Of course there are other alternatives out there. There's the small sweaty gym for the real weight lifters. You know, the kind of gym with women named Tonya who look (and sound) like the starting front four of the NY Jets. There's the overpriced "Spa" memberships where the Jacuzzi comes filled with Perrier and you can get your back (among other things) waxed ... and finally there's the increasingly popular "home" gyms. Comedian Jay Leno used to do the joke about what a great place a treadmill was to hang your clothes on. I think I'm with Jay on this one.
 
So next time you're driving down High Street and you see me huffing and puffing along side the road feel free to honk and wave but don't expect me to stop and talk.  I got me some exercising to do! 
 
Jerry Elliott hosts the WLVQ-FM-96 Morning Show