An unknown gym bro's fist & an unexpected insight

Drafted between sets

"I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul, / The pleasures of [the bench] are with me and the pains of [the bench] are with me." -Walt Whitman (alterations mine)

I’m at the gym. Hitting bench, my first lift of the day. Moments ago, I failed a one-rep max attempt. I should have gotten it—it was fifteen pounds shy of a personal record I set ten months ago. I had to be bailed out by my spotter. Annoyed at my past self for slacking on chest days, I drop the weight by sixty-five pounds for a couple more penance sets.

No spotter this time—this should be a warm-up weight for me. But I’ve done a few sets already today and it feels heavy. I do eight clean reps and re-rack. During my rest, I’m asking ChatGPT on my phone why it thinks my latest essay drafts just haven’t been working. I’ve started at least three different essays for this week so far, and after hours working on each, they keep spinning out of control and becoming unfocused messes. I know when writing is good, and they haven’t been good. It starts chattering out a response, but I put my phone down—it’s time for another set. Short rests. No more slacking.

I unrack the bar. Same weight, but it feels heavier. I pump out three reps. Then I pause, and collect myself. Another rep. It goes up slow.

One more rep. This one is a real grind. I keep my backside on the bench to maintain competition form—not that I compete, or ever could. But standards are standards for a reason.

I finish the rep and pause. The barbell is above me, just dreaming of converting its potential energy into the kinetic variety, right into my face. My arms are trembling a little. Any other day, I’d re-rack. But I’m mad about the failed max. And I know I have one more in me. I’ve been here before. I’m not scared of trembling arms, or a heavy bar, or a slow rep.

My body isn’t so sure. So I remind it who’s in charge by quietly saying: “Last one.”

It obeys, just as I’ve trained it to. I bring the bar down, nice and controlled. I touch my chest gently. And then I start to push.

And I mean really push. I get the first inch, and suddenly my progress stops. I’m not afraid. I’ve been here before. I dig deep and squeeze out another inch. And again, my progress stops.

And then it hits me—I have been here before. This is what it feels like to fail a rep. Uh-oh.

I let my butt start to levitate off the bench. It’s not up to competition standards, but I’m way past that at this point. The new angle gives me a tiny bit of new leverage, which lets me eke out another couple of vertical inches. I’m past my usual sticking point, so I should be in the clear—but again the bar stops. I’m not going to make it without help.

Now, I’m not in danger. Worst case scenario, the bar descends slowly back to rest on my chest, I make eye contact with one of the dudes chatting on the bench next to me, he comes over, and I’m saved. There’s no threat to anything but my pride. But it does look like I’m about to have to swallow it.

But first, I’m going to give myself one more chance. Because I have been here before. I’ve had harder reps. More than I could count. Most, I’ve failed. But not all.

So again, I push.

Push.

PUSH!

Somehow, the bar starts to move again. In all my time at the gym, I don’t know if I’ve ever lifted a bar more slowly. I’m fighting for my life, and the bar is moving with all the alacrity of a sloth on Xanax. But it doesn’t stop again.

Up.

Up! Almost there.

UP!—

Finally, my elbows lock. I tip the weight back and drop it onto the rack.

I breathe out hard and sit up, dazed and fully spent. Before I’ve had time to form a thought, I see a guy about my age walking by. Like almost everyone else in the gym, he’s got earbuds in, phone in one hand. But on his way past, he catches my eye and holds out his free hand, an action that I mirror instinctively. He gives me a fist bump, then a tight nod. Then he looks back down at his phone and heads off to another bench.

---

This is my fourth essay for the Fare Well Files in as many weeks. When I started, I committed to releasing one every week, on Thursday, for the foreseeable future. How hard could it be? After all, I like writing, and I always have something to say.

I underestimated every part of that. First of all, I haven’t just liked writing, I have loved it. I had no idea how enjoyable it would be to write so freely, without worrying about a niche, or suitability for a given publication, or finding a topical hook for my pitch to an editor. And I didn’t realize how cathartic it would be to crystallize and express my thoughts about things that have been swirling around in my mind for years. It feels really great.

And finding things to write about has been even easier than I expected as well. In fact, that has actually created its own challenge: I have too much that I want to say. I find that when I open the door and try to usher an idea through, a bunch of others try to go at the same time, and they get stuck in the door frame, Three Stooges-style. I had expected that this kind of writing would feel more like painting, where you fill up a canvas, but it has felt more like making a statue, carving marble away to find something worth publishing.

And for that reason, among others, I also underestimated how hard it would be. I thought that this would be one of a rotating lineup of weekly projects I’d work on, per my M.O. Instead, this has taken just about every spare minute I’ve had since I started it.

I think it wouldn’t be particularly difficult if I relaxed my personal standards a little bit. But standards are standards for a reason. Whether or not these essays have been any good is one thing, and whether or not anybody likes them is yet another. But I can say that what I’ve written is the very best that I can do under the given time constraints. (And even if I had unlimited time to do them, I’m not sure I’d be able to access some higher plane anyway. The weekly deadline is tough, but fair.)

Because I want the essays to reflect my best work, I have spent hours writing and finishing drafts—and then I’ve completely started over, only to finish that draft, scrap it, and start fresh again, this time with a completely different topic. I don’t mind that too much, it’s part of the process. But it can be frustrating—and discouraging—when a deadline looms and I only have so much time left. I’ve met deadlines before, tighter ones with way higher stakes. But that doesn’t make it easy this time around, either.

And speaking of stakes, it can feel a little silly to be putting so much of my heart and time into a blog. Frankly, that word makes me wince. I mostly avoid it, preferring to call these “essays” on my “Substack.” I tell myself that if Walden were written in 2025, it would have had JPEGs and hyperlinks too. But I have to call a spade a spade, and I have to call a blog a blog.

I know this doesn’t look like much. When I look around, I see people with a lot more weight on their bars. I know you’re not supposed to compare to others, but even if I benchmark only against myself, this should really be a warm-up weight for me. Around fifteen hundred words a week? That’s baby stuff. (Speaking of that, this would be a lot easier if I didn’t have to deal with so much baby stuff.) Even so, sometimes, the bar moves really, really slowly.

And you know what, that’s okay. Even failed reps—maybe especially failed reps—get me closer to my goals. I’m not in any danger, except maybe my pride. But I know no one is paying that close of attention anyway. They’ve got their own workouts, their own lives, to worry about. Making or missing a hard rep is the smallest deal in the world. Either way, I’m going to show up for myself. Life has taught me how to dig deep, how to push through—whether or not anyone is watching.

And that’s exactly why that fist bump caught me so off-guard. Because even though I shouldn’t need it—in fact, I know I don’t need it—it still meant a lot.

That little moment of encouragement made me appreciate the people who’ve been there—offering a nod, a kind word, a fist bump—as I’ve started this blog. My “readership” right now is basically just a collection of a few kind and supportive friends. And every week, I’ve gotten a comment here, a kind text there, a dap here, a nod there. And I just want to say—I sincerely appreciate it. You’d be surprised how much it means.

So whether you’re a friend, a stranger reading this, or a random gym dude—thanks. Now, I've got a long workout ahead. So it's time for me to put my headphones back on and get back to it.