Sydney’s a tart, while Melbourne is a lady, so the saying goes.
In other words, Melbourne is classy, cultured and refined, whilst Sydney is a showy, superficial affair – the opulent beachside houses, expensive European automobiles, over-the-top restaurants and city ‘super’ bars plus, of course, those ultra image-conscious Sydneysiders – a thong-wearing crowd of ladies with exposed cleavage and blokes flashing their underpants.
Or so I’m told.
There’s no hiding away if you choose a life in Sydney, no option to be the shrinking violet. You either have it or you don’t.
Leave your shyness and self-consciousness at the airport because, upon landing in this picture-perfect harbour city, the spotlight is on you and your body as you do battle with the masses for the ultimate prize – recognition of your highly visible beauty or acknowledgement of your hard won physical prowess.
The years in Ottawa had been unkind to me. Repeated harsh winters had hurt my waistline as I hibernated for six months each year taking comfort in the rich and hearty Canadian fare, and rarely venturing beyond the front door.
The television ruled my life and I welcomed its digital embrace.
This existence wouldn’t cut it in Sydney. This was a city that never stopped, where its citizens sought out exercise with a frenzied passion, and where my expanding girth would be on display during all eleven months of summer. I had no choice but to embark upon a path to better health and improved physical perfection.
Sydney-style.
A colleague of mine suggested I join her for a light evening workout in the suburb of Newport on Sydney’s Northern Beaches. Naive in those early interactions with the obsessively fit Sydneysider, I assumed a light workout meant just that.
That was until I met the legend known as the Sandhill Warrior.
Photo credit: Rob Rowland-Smith |
As I pulled up to the Warrior’s home where a group of people congregated outside, I had that creeping sensation of being out of my depth. Peering closer from my position at the edge of the group, I realised these guys weren’t just in good shape, they were at the peak of their physical fitness. Biceps rippled under the gaze of the late afternoon sun and quadriceps bulged out of shorts like thick slabs of finest Australian meat.
In the midst of this athletic posturing, I got my first glimpse of the man they call the Warrior.
Never claiming to be too easy on the eye and no longer the spring chicken, he was in his element surrounded by the fittest of the fit and revelling in his place as their leader for the night.
In fact, the Pit looked more like a medieval torture chamber with its mechanical devices and bizarre contraptions. This was a place where tears would be shed, come rain or shine, as we went on our “quest for the chest”.
“Still got it” proclaimed one of the old boys as he flexed his arms. “This ain’t no Fitness First, you wood duck,” snarled the Warrior. “Now bring that weight up to one of those five chins of yours.”
Guys with names including the King, Titanium, Bucky, Iron Sheik, and the Behemoth pushed on. One young buck called out: “You don’t get these pickin’ cherries,” as he curled his over-sized arms. This was high comedy mixed with painful drama.
I was loving it.
A circuit of the Pit ensued at high speed, no recovery between exhausting exercises, no chance to get a quick breath of air or a sly drink of Cyril juice. On to a sprint around the local school followed by team relays flipping tractor tires up and down the street. A fast paced run around the neighbourhood, down to the Arms, and back for a chin-up session on the bars. Then into the Pit for the mighty “Rack of Death”, a hellish row of bicep routines, my weak noodle arms crying out for mercy. Finally, onto the street for more sprint relays and a five sets of the stairs.
The first hour had passed and we still had another 45 minutes.
Photo credit: Rob Rowland-Smith |
Push-ups off the back wall, first inclines, then declines. Boxing in pairs, more push-ups, more running. The Warrior trained with us and as hard as us. We dropped to the ground and punished the abs. Knocking out my 350th crunch, I groaned in despair. Finished. Done.
My body couldn’t take any more.
Cradling my broken stomach, I sat with the salesmen, accountants, bureaucrats and tradies as we nursed our ruined bodies in the cooling heat of a Sydney summer’s evening.
I’d just trained with the best of them. An intense climate and a relentless trainer. I had a new found respect for this man they called the Warrior. Unique and old school, unlike anything I’d seen or done before. He epitomised the tough Aussie – a little intimidating on the outside, but warm and fuzzy on the inside with the individual or group’s best interest at heart.
In Australia, I was set. I’d found my team and my trainer. I’d quickly start to reap the rewards.
This early experience in the land down under was about more than just the Sandhill Warrior. It was about my fledgling new expat life and improving a bad attitude to my health. My life in Oz now comprised of considerably less time sat in front of the television and infinitely more time spent outside. I’m measurably fitter, noticeably healthier, and much less inclined to flick the switch on the remote. My account with the TV is in decline and I don’t miss it one bit – the TV or the bad habits.
Sydney may well be a superficial city and it might just put too much out on show, but as I found my inner Warrior in my early 30s, I realised one crucially important thing.
I’ve still got it.
Photo credit: Flickr Creative Commons lululemon athletica
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vegemitevix says
And in honesty this is exactly what I miss about life in Blighty. I was chatting with two other bloggers yesterday in Brisbane and one was talking about her husband going out surfing this weekend. You can do that in Queensland, even in the winter! I miss that. Yes it’s true England throws off its winter coat and gets out on the mountain bike in the summer but the months in which I can truly exercise (being an asthmatic) are limited to about three out of twelve. Glad life in Sydney has been so good to you! Now are we going to meet the Ward clan in Basingstoke blogger meet up sometime soon?
Russell V J Ward says
@vegemitevix – You know you want to be out here. England has reasonable summers most of the time but it’s all too short-lived and over-rated. The one thing you never worry about here is the weather, although it shouldn’t all be about sun, sea and sand. Other places offer far more depth in other areas. That said, we still need to work on your Brit. We’re back for a flying visit end May/early June if you’re around?
Joepdutch says
Awesome, love it!!!!!
Russell V J Ward says
Thanks Joey – and as the main event at these sessions, you set the bar which we all try to reach. One day I’ll catch you but I might be an old man by the time it happens 😉