Over the years I’ve collected a number of go-to benchmark tests of my physical capacity.*
I understand some people collect shoes, fluffy toys or these days even something called ‘likes’(??).
Now I recognise that this puts me in a particular sub-species of our great race as someone who likes to put themselves willingly under pressure periodically and be faced with the stark truth of The Numbers.
‘Cos however you feel on the day y’all can’t argue with The Numbers.
Now this all goes right back to when I started running in my teens at school and at lunchtime Mr Watson – internationally ranked orienteer with all 3 children at school ALL internationally-ranked orienteers (as was Mum) – used to take a bunch of us out for a swift 5miler. Well, we’d be against the clock – and each other – every single time, and nothing less than sub 30mins would suffice.
When triathlon came calling a few short years later going up against The Numbers became the norm – ‘cos swimming and cycling are pretty much ALL about numbers: Strokes/min, revolutions/min. distance/stroke, time/distance, watts and power output. Phew – it became like a hall of mirrors not knowing which way to look.
Then there was peer-pecking order: Where you were against the folks you trained with? ‘Keep up with Billy Whizz at tonight’s session did you? And how about the race last week – did you keep the buggers behind you or not?
So I always knew where I was: I could always track progression, a holding pattern and a decline.
And as the saying goes, if you want to manage it you gotta be measuring it.
Fast forward a few decades and I still have that habit though applied somewhat more selectively.
I have my running-specific local tests against the watch going back 2 decades from when we first moved here, and I also have a handful of tests of strength, physical capacity and sheer bloody-mindedness. Some of these are like putting an old favourite sweatshirt on and some still have me on the cusp of bottom lip-wobbling mode at the prospect.
The sandbag get up being right there at the top of that particular tree.
Now I’m a huge fan of tests of Physical Capacity because they test mental and emotional as well as the physical. You can also take a simple essential movement from real life that everyone can and does do – like getting up from the floor from a supine position and lying back down again – and make it into a scalable inclusive challenge. Get-Up ‘games’ in various guises are indeed a feature of my prison program: You can use both hands, one hand only or no hands to get up, you can make it a pairs or team challenge and you can do it all with a sandbag on your shoulder. The rest is how long are you against the clock for and how many will you do today?
What they discover very quickly is that this is actually a test of managing mood, thinking clearly under (actual) pressure – oh and breathing (and counting).
Right at the top of the difficulty continuum for this test is to work for 10mins with a 40kg bag (men) 30kg (women).
Sounds simple huh? Well it is – and that’s the sick beauty of it.
It’s also bloody brutal, can literally flatten you into submission and requires maximum focus in order to safely control a moveable beast of a weight against gravity as the minutes morph into what feels like agonising hours. I have been flat out seeing stars at the end and blowing out of every orifice like a frantic steam engine as sweat pours off me in rivers.
I also recall losing control of my bowels partway through one memorable session eliciting a frantic butt-clenching and very undignified dash from the garage.
Which was nice.
So I love it and fear it in equal measure – and of course I have to up the ante by doing it solo without any banging tunes so it’s just me and me for company.
The gold standard for the blokes seems to be in the 70+ reps region. The closest I’ve got to that so far is 60 which I put up during Covid when I was bored and had designed various projects to keep me less bored. There’s clearly a 60@60 birthday challenge here next year (sigh).
I learned very quickly that this is one that’s too easy to talk yourself out of and the prime time for that is during the warmup. Solution? Don’t warm up – set yer timer on countdown sunshine, and just dive straight in.
(A word of caution here: I’ve worked on my mobility over the last 5 years – another Covid project – to get to the point where I can go from 0-60 without pulling anything. While this is very useful in real life it is also essential for my prison work where I will be periodically challenged by the men to press-ups or football or tyre-flips or a race or anything else that in their eyes proves my mettle. I need to be able to jump straight in and guess what – it’s a transferable skill).
So this week I’m in the garage while it’s still dark looking at the 40kg bag on the floor knowing I’ve not done this for bloomin’ ages but thinking after a September spent biking and getting back to lifting heavy things I’d be very happy with anything over 40.
Click-bleep-GO!
Floor to shoulder settle the weight and…the first one gets done without any warning creaks so I focus on the handrail that is the breathing cycle: 5-8 very forceful exhales per movement doesn’t sound pretty but it gives rhythm and the essential oxygen from the off. Slow and steady remember…
Weirdly the first 10 get done smoothly – I’ve learned not to be seduced by this – then there’s the shoulder swap wrestle with the bag going under my chin and round to the other side. This other shoulder is a different shape which means the bag has always sat more awkwardly which means this side requires me to be even more on task.
Another 10 and another swap and that’s the first marker halfway to my aspirational 40 and it still feels OK. I never look at the watch simply focused on the next 10 reps before a shoulder swap. Back on my comfy shoulder there’s a smidge of respite as it all feels just abit easier – though that’s increasingly moot as the pressure is rising to ‘really quite uncomfortable now’ breathing noise is similarly up while vision is narrowing. Another 10 and another swap and I’m heading towards 40 and while I’m slowing I still have rhythm and have yet to have a serious wobble.
C’mon blow, you…I’m right on 7 steam-train size exhales per down-up and I need it all to keep the wobbles at bay and the vision anywhere near functional.
40! F**kin’ bonus time! I figure maybe another 10 so on 45 there’s a desperately-grasping sweaty swap and then world class gurning and blowing have me crawl to 50. Keep it on the shoulder for another 1- down-u…BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!
52 and I can still think straight – I think…
Now what day is it?
*The amount of work you can do in a specific time.
