Back in 2001, before I decided to devote the rest of my life to the relentless pursuit of physical perfection, I wrote this column about a torturous device called the Ab Wheel.
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© 2001 Mark Mayfield
Whenever a new fitness craze sweeps the nation, one brave man (me) provides a clarion voice of caution. Several years ago, when everybody else was frantically exercising to achieve “Buns of Steel,” I bravely retained my “Buns of Cookie Dough.” I bravely denounced steel buns because of their possible consequences (scratched church pews, broken theater seats, etc.). When everybody else decided to firm up flabby legs, I bravely expressed doubt about the effectiveness of a popular exercise device called the Thighmaster. (I also bravely admitted that I enjoyed watching attractive women in tight leotards demonstrate the Thighmaster on television.) And when everybody else was buying a video about “Tae Bo,” I bravely asked this important question: “Where is my Tae Bo muscle located?”
My suspicion of fitness fads started during my early teens, when I wasted several months of my hard-earned allowance on a spring-loaded chest-building contraption. After the dangerous device malfunctioned during my first workout, fatally pinching my puny pectorals, I vowed to be more careful when purchasing exercise gadgets. But even a clarion voice of caution occasionally discovers a product he just can’t resist. That’s why I recently purchased an Ab Wheel, an inexpensive exercise device that supposedly produces tight, well-defined, rock-hard, washboard-like abs, a.k.a. “abominables.” (I can live with my Buns of Cookie Dough, but I’ve always hated my Abs of Vanilla Pudding.) This simple invention, which is nothing more than a small plastic wheel impaled by a straight handlebar, comes with a handy chart that helps novice exercisers find the exact location of their abs, which are just south of their underdeveloped pecs and a little north of their Tae Bo muscles.
Using the Ab Wheel isn’t complicated. You simply “kneel on the floor, grip the handle with both hands, roll as far forward as comfortable, gradually return to the starting position, and repeat.” According to the instructions, beginners should not perform more than one set of eight repetitions within a 48-hour period. But since I wanted tight, well-defined, rock-hard, washboard-like abs before dinnertime, I intended to perform fifty sets of eighty repetitions within a one-hour period.
The first repetition triggered a painfully violent temblor that was centered deep beneath my stomach’s tranquil surface, way down in the ancient molten core of corndogs and chocolate cake I consumed between the 4th and 6th grades. As the shock-wave continued its upward journey, it traveled through gigantic shifting plates of my grandma’s famous Christmas fudge, through massive primordial deposits of Halloween candy and homemade ice cream, and, finally, through the unstable mantle of pepperoni pizza and deep-fried cheese sticks that formed during my body’s chaotic post-pubescent era.
During the second repetition, the intense pain was accompanied by many alarming sounds, including one that frequently occurs in cartoons, when a broken spring pops out of an old couch. As I bravely performed the third repetition, I suddenly experienced brain numbness, shortness of breath, mental confusion, and a comforting vision of a beautiful angel who invited me into heaven. At that point, I quickly canceled plans for a fourth repetition.
After catching my breath and regaining my ability to speak, I summoned my wife for an unbiased opinion of my new physique. (I also desperately needed her assistance because I didn’t have enough strength to stand up.)
“Do my abs look tight, rock-hard and well-defined?” I asked hopefully.
“I guess so,” she said, trying to suppress a loud laugh.
“Would you say they resemble a washboard?” I inquired.
“Oh, definitely,” she replied. “In fact, I thought you had glued a washboard to your stomach.”
“Would you say that the sight of my tight, rock-hard, well-defined, washboard-like abs is causing you to experience uncontrollable feelings of marital lust?
(This is when my wife’s attempt to suppress a loud laugh failed miserably.)
In summary, I can honestly say that the Ab Wheel produced noticeable changes in my midsection, including a weird protrusion that may be the beginning of a washboard OR a hernia-related problem that requires medical attention. I’m a little worried about it.
Mark W. Mayfield is now toning and sculpting his flabby Tae Bo muscle.
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The Life and Times of Mark Mayfield (so far) 