Finding My Inner Warrior

Sydney's a tart, whilst 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 beach side 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 overly exposed cleavage and blokes flashing their underwear. 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 my physique and general well-being prior to arriving in Sydney. 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 warm 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 legendary Sandhill Warrior.

Photo credit: Rob Rowland-Smith

As I pulled up to the Sandhill 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 called the Warrior. Never claiming to be too easy on the eye and definitely no longer the spring chicken, he was obviously in his element surrounded by the 'fittest of the fit' and reveling in his undisputed place as their leader for the night.


'One team, one dream' was the call as his posse of 'Warriors' took their positions in the legendary backyard 'Pit', a place where names have been made and bodies have been broken. Four tonnes of sand stretched out in front of me, laden with weight machines, dumb bells, bar bells, incline benches, chin-up bars, leg presses and more. In fact, the Pit looked more like some kind of medieval torture chamber with its many mechanical devices and contraptions. This was a place where tears would be shed, come rain or shine, as we went on our 'quest for the chest'.

As the session kicked off, the banter was beautiful, the retorts sublime. "Still got it" proclaimed one of the old boys admiring his own strength. "This ain't no Fitness First, you wood duck" snarled the Warrior, "now speed it up". As characters with names such as Titanium, Knopfler, Iron Sheik, and Mick Fanning pushed on, one young buck claimed "You don't get a pair of these pickin' cherries" as he flexed his impressive arms. This was high comedy mixed with seriously painful drama. I was loving it.

A circuit of the Pit ensued at high speed, no recovery between exhaustive sets of exercises, no chance to get your breath back. Then on to a lengthy 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' hotel and back was next then an exhaustive chin-up session on the bars. Back into the Pit for the incredible 'rack of death' - a hellish row of bicep curl exercises, one after the other, until my arms cried out for mercy. Finally, it was out to the street for more tire carrying relays and sprinting as the first hour passed with no sign of a let-up.

Photo credit: Rob Rowland-Smith

We did push-ups off the back wall, first inclines, then declines. Boxing in pairs, more push-ups, more running. All of the time, the Warrior trained with us and as hard as us. We dropped to the ground and it was time to punish those abdominals. As we knocked out 350 sit-ups minimum, I groaned in despair. I was finished. I was done. I 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 25 degree heat of a Sydney summer's evening.

I had just trained in an intense climate with an intense trainer. I had a newfound respect for this man they called the Warrior. He was unique and old school, unlike anything I had encountered in the UK or Canada. He epitomised the hardened Aussie - at first a little intimidating but always with the best intentions for the team. In Australia, I was set. I would from now on train with this epic instructor and forever reap the rewards.

But this early experience in Australia had been about more than the Sandhill Warrior. It was about my fledgling life in Australia and an improving attitude to my health. Life in Oz comprised considerably less time sat in front of the television and infinitely more time spent outside. What's more, this life has been good to the tummy. I'm measurably fitter, noticeably healthier, and much less inclined to flick the switch on the remote control. My account with the TV is rapidly in decline and I don't miss it one bit - the tummy or the TV.

Sydney may well be a superficial city and it may well put too much out on show but, as I found my inner Warrior in my early 30s, I realised one important thing...  I've still got it.

Photo credit: Flickr Creative Commons lululemon athletica



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