Let's get physical

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

'Let's get physical, physical; I wanna get physical, let's get into physical.'

Wrong Way Corrigan gets put through his paces at Walter's tienda.

Those lyrics, as some of you may recognise, are from the song Physical, originally recorded by the late Olivia Newton-John in 1981.

Considering how the rest of the song goes — 'let me hear your body talk' comes after the lyrics we've just quoted — the physical Newton-John sang about is not quite the one I have in mind here. While the setting for the music video is a gym, a little bit more than a solid, individual workout is suggested.

A problem to work out

Now, I'm not against intimate physicality per se, but the workout I want to talk up is one that doesn't require a partner. It can either be physical labour or planned exercise, the latter important for those whose regular lives are devoid of much movement, which is the case for many in high-income nations. Whatever form it takes, the idea is that it gets one's heart racing, lungs pumping and sweat glands exuding.

As somebody who is not a fan of gyms and whose current work life tends not to be that physical, I try to do my best to work up a sweat in other ways: Kinaesthetic exercises at home; walk when and where I can and do so with purpose and power; in general, the aim is to be as energetic as possible in daily tasks that require movement.

Ideally, though, I prefer it when a chore I undertake naturally involves an amount of physical exertion in order to get it done. In this way, I don't have to find a time to fit in exercise into my daily routine: a case of exercise necessarily coming with what one has to do or wants to do.

Alas, these days, it's rare enough that any work I'm charged with is of a physical nature — getting aggressive with frustrating technology doesn't really count.

So getting the opportunity to do some hard-ish labour is something of an enjoyable novelty.

This was the case over the Christmas period just gone.

Walter's Mitty

Walter, the owner of one of my preferred tienda bars in San Martín de los Llanos, asked me to lend him a helping hand on what is one of his busiest nights of the year: Christmas Eve running into Christmas morning.

'Receiving gruff orders reminds me of the times I worked on building sites where intellectually challenged labourers exercised the tiny bit of power they enjoyed by barking out instructions at their perceived inferiors.'

It'd be a stretch to say I was honoured to be asked — I'd visions of an old practice in Ireland where a drunkard helps out in his local in return for booze — but it was going to be a novelty for me and so worth a try. More importantly, it would give me something additional to do as I drank — I was allowed to gently imbibe during my shift — on a night that I'm largely indifferent towards in these parts.

My main task was to keep Walter's four deep-fridge-freezers stocked with both bottles and cans of beer as well as fulfilling the orders of customers, with the vast majority buying crates of booze to take home. So there was a lot of hauling of beer crates here and there, stocking and restocking, with little rest time. And while I could restock at a decent speed, the overworked fridges were struggling to cool down the beer, such was the turnover.

Even after we pulled down the see-through shutters at 4 am to organise things for the next opening, the odd reveller continued to rock up looking to keep the liquor flowing and the party going.

Seeing as how Walter asked me back to help him again on New Year's Eve, I took it as a sign that I performed well. Or at least I wasn't a complete failure.

One of the biggest drawbacks was that at times I failed to understand Walter when he gave me an order. In my defence, I've noticed that even native Spanish speakers sometimes struggle to understand Walter because his speech isn't the clearest due to missing front teeth.

I'm also not great at taking orders, especially ones delivered gruffly, of which Walter was occasionally guilty. Receiving orders in such a style reminds me of the times I worked on building sites where intellectually challenged labourers exercised the tiny bit of power they enjoyed by barking out instructions at their perceived inferiors.

The intensity and duration were ratcheted up a few notches on that New Year's Eve/morning — the busiest period of the whole year for Walter. This shift was of 12 hours, 5 pm to 5 am, as opposed to an eight-hour one the previous time.

Not only that, but Walter asked me to return to help him from 10 am to 5 pm on New Year's Day, so in a sense it could be said I did a 24-hour shift, split by an extended morning break.

Rugby roll

With just a trickle of customers on New Year's Day compared to what went before, my main task was to bring crates full of beer to the tienda from a small storehouse at the back of the premises, some 30 metres away. I also had to take the crates stocked with empties from the tienda to the storehouse.

As most of this 30-metre distance has a smooth, tiled surface — in between the tienda and the storehouse is a motel managed by Walter's sister — the easiest and most enjoyable way to carry out this task was by pushing the crates, stacked five-high, along the floor. It felt like I was in a rugby maul, with shouts of heave from the imaginary spectators driving me on. Something to that effect. It did get the heart racing, lungs pumping and sweat glands exuding in any case.

It was my favourite chore of the whole experience for the following reasons: It had a decent physical element to it, working different muscles; I was left to my own devices doing it, with the added bonus of not having to deal with tipsy and occasionally annoying clientèle; and I'm fairly sure Walter was quite pleased that I did it rather than him. Small, rotund Walter wouldn't strike one as the most athletic man about town. Although with practice, he could hold his own in the front row of a rugby scrum.

I must add that Walter did pay me for my labour. For the first shift on 24 December, I thought my payment was going to be in kind, basically free beer and food, the latter being a not-too-shabby Christmas dinner. But I got a decent enough cash payment, too. Had I not been paid for that initial stint, I would have been less inclined to return. Although seeing as how I dislike New Year's Eve, I probably would have gone back to help out regardless; a different way to pass the night.

I'm not, however, looking to go full-time as a tienda bar assistant. I have other ways to get physical activity into my daily routine. And I do like to be my own boss, when and where I can.
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