Sunday 21 February 2021

Working out.

Every morning Smitty's feet would hit the ground.  He'd walk out to the garage.  Lights would flip on; radio too.  He'd  swing in under the weights on the bench press.  Do a few reps.  Throw a few punches into the duct taped heavy bag.  Quickly jog back inside to grab a big mug of black coffee, maybe with a shot of rye if he wasn't driving truck that day.  Then he'd hit the bag a bit more, and knock out a few push-ups and some dumbbell sets.  

I asked Smitty how often he worked out.  He replied "every effing day bud, every effing day".  

When it is really cold he pops on a little space heater, and works out in an old Newfoundland sweater.  He's 97 this year, and I heard his music coming out of the garage, and even a few thuds from the heavy bag on my way to work this morning.