I rebuilt my home gym yesterday, which is a fancy way of saying I cleaned up under the house. It was getting pretty dusty down there and my little friends the possums weren't helping much either. It did take about two hours to get everything swept up, dusted out, wiped down and ready to rock. But I was having trouble concentrating on my writing – no surprise there – and rather than give into frustration I decided I'd achieve something in the world of real things. With no idea when I'll get back to a real gym and trainer, this seemed a good investment of my time.
I'm luckier than most people, however, because I've got a pretty good set up at home, one that's worked for me well in the past. Like most old Queenslanders there's a lot of space under our house, more than enough room for me to have a weights bench, a running machine and a heavy bag hanging from the rafters. There's even room for kicking drills. My weight plates and bars are old and gnarly, but so am I, so that's no biggie.
It's been about a week or so since I last stepped onto the mat for jujitsu, and it could be months before I get back to training. I can start to feel the endorphin withdrawal in my muscles. I can also feel frustration turning to something uglier, exacerbated by the same fears that everyone has at the moment.
I know from defeating my last bout of depression that exercise is the best therapy for me. If you end up in lockdown at home I'd recommend it for you to; even if you live in a tiny apartment and it means downloading an app like the 100 Push-up Challenge, cos that's all you have room for. It all helps.
I've got some other things I'm thinking of doing, like hosting a weekly cocktail hour on Zoom, or maybe restarting the book club. I might do some live readings online somewhere.
But today I'm just going to lift some weights and hit the bag. Hard.