I can still hear it now. The faint squeaks and twangs of moving metal springs emanating from my parent’s bedroom, accompanied by rhythmic huffs and puffs.
It was my father, working his trusty chest expander. An ex-army officer, he was always a fit man, very much infected by the keep-fit bug, as it was once known. His three-times-a-week routine would consist of a two- to four-mile run, 50 press-ups and a sequence of exercises on his chest expander.
Basically two handles connected by less than half a metre of metal springs, the chest expander could be pulled apart to overcome the resistance provided by the expanding springs. A simple device and perhaps the first piece of fitness equipment I ever lay my hands on. As it happened, it would turn out to be the first of many.
My father would pull it apart from above his head, using straight arms. The expanded device would end up stretched across the upper back and outstretched arms at the end of the movement, assuming a sort of standing crucifix position: an exercise I can now deduce was for the chest and back muscles. He would also anchor one end of the device under his foot and perform biceps curls with the other. I watched with fascination. I wanted to grow up and be big and strong just like dad.
I was only little, so the resistance provided by the springs was quite significant. As I would force it apart any which way I could, the device would snap back together as soon as I gave up, perhaps taking a tuft of hair along with it, or trapping an unfortunate little fold of skin, depending on the particular contorted bodily position I would have used to pry it open.
Of course, right there I must have inadvertently stumbled across the exact same reason for the eventual downfall of the chest expander; it was way too dangerous for the safety-conscious world we now live in.
Yes, it was crude and hazardous, but the chest expander wasn’t just a rudimentary piece of fitness equipment, it was a symbol. My interest in the chest expander and a good ability in sports had helped secure a special interest from my father, and in between workouts he would often enjoy schooling me in the fine art of manliness.
Such lessons included how to stand with a fully expanded chest and how to execute ferocious-looking facial expressions. Movies were his preferred teaching aid. Burt Reynolds, Charles Bronson and an early Sean Connery are some of the more memorable leading men who kicked behinds, took names and didn’t like to make too much of a fuss about it. They got the job done without the need for 20-inch biceps; a good moustache and an icy glare was all they needed.
After discovering Stallone and Schwarzenegger movies, however, I began to stray somewhat from the sterling education I was receiving. The 80s seemed to be all about watching muscular men firing big guns or rolling around fighting each other. Nevertheless, unperturbed, it became clear to me that lifting weights was the only way forward. By the time I set foot in a commercial gym for the first time, aged 16, I noticed the hairy hunks of old had been replaced by the new generation of waxed-chested, clean-shaven hunks of new with their glistening, oiled-up, larger-than-life muscles.
Men didn’t run outside or do press-ups anymore; they ran on fancy machines in gyms full of other men and congregated in the free-weights area, piling weights onto the bench press to establish the strongest of them all. These men didn’t relax at the end of a day sitting discreetly and alone in the corner of a bar drinking beer, they waved their hands in the air in the middle of the dance floor downing vodka shooters.
The chest expander and all it represented had vanished. The only remnants of it remaining could be seen lying around in aerobics studios or tucked away in some forlorn corner of the gym. They were now made of brightly coloured rubber and provided not more than a few grams of resistance. The age of safety and accountability had arrived. For a while we were all a little too afraid to try something new, reluctant to take a chance. But in the words of the legendary Dirty Harry: “Are you feeling lucky, punk?”
The chest expander and all it represented had vanished. The only remnants of it remaining could be seen lying around in aerobics studios or tucked away in some forlorn corner of the gym
Thanks in no small part to the cross-fit revolution, the times are now changing and I, for one, am feeling very lucky. Are we witnessing a large-scale return to the age of the chest expander? People aren’t just picking up things like chest expanders; they are picking up old pieces of rope and chain, throwing medicine balls around and punching heavy bags held together by duct tape.
They are swinging kettlebells around violently and running outdoors again. Take one look at social media these days and you’ll notice men seem to be growing long beards and would rather be seen performing feats of athletic prowess rather than posing for photographs topless and covered in grease.
Even the macho men of old would brave a smile. I always thought sport and exercise mirror life, so I cast an icy glare with fervent interest. Are we witnessing a paradigm shift?
matthew.muscat.inglott@mcast.edu.mt