Want to live longer? This is what you need to do

I was rushing to the gym. A few metres near the door, two young dudes were chatting animatedly. Their accents indicated they were both foreign. Nothing unusual in London. Statistics say 300 languages are spoken here. Almost every tribe, nationality and ethnicity on earth is represented in this city. Yup. The two dudes had company and their subject seemed exciting. Hold on. Not females. Not music. Not money. What else do twenty-something-year-olds, converse? Last week we said Christmas fever is climaxing here. My friend, it was neither of all those things above.

“She is lovely. No hassles. And she is only a year old...”

“My, my, I would like to borrow her for a few hours...”

They both laughed. Dogs live 12 years maximum and each year equals six of a human. So a one year old dog is like a six year old human.

As I paid and signed to be let in...(For health and safety reasons. In case of accidents, tragedies, legal issues, etc). I noticed out of the corner of my eye, the dudes, bidding farewell. The dog owner smiled as his pal stooped to caress the huge, chubby puppy and then let his cheek touch the animal’s neck. Again, nothing unusual in these parts of the globe.

Citizens hug, kiss, cuddle, even share beds with animals. We have a very different approach towards animals, even pets, in Africa. Although I might be generalising.

South Africa has another kind of vibe. A few years back I watched with trepidation a BBC programme of a white South African guy who spends time around lions 24/7.

Plays. Feeds . Knows them. Lions are like his cattle, friends and family.

Talk about Africa and beasts. Ask most remote African villagers, who tend to be extremely terrified of lions and elephants trampling on their crops; even killing them. Or the Maasai who have lived side by side with lions for centuries. It is no secret that lions fear—or let us use another word—respect—the Maasai. This matter is about knowledge, interest, habit, tradition. Culture. The English have the expression: Man’s best friend is his dog. Swallow that.

So ladies and gents, I hopped into the gym. While deeply involved in my activity I saw the dog dude not far from me. Across us two women chatted heatedly about something I could not focus on. They were both on stationary bikes. Both large mammas, losing weight. There was another medium built, but slightly muscular woman in pink pants, T-shirt and a matching bandana, i.e. a cloth tied around her head.

“Pink lady,” I joked lightly, walking past.

She smiled. “Yes. I love pink.”

Fifteen minutes later, I heard him.

Panting heavily.

He was using the battle ropes. I love this amazing exercise pioneered by John Brookfield. You grab and lash hard on the floor. The exercise has many benefits. One of them is exercising without damaging joints, which most mechanised equipment does these days. The young dude and me swapped and shared the battling rope.

I left the ropes and went to rowing. Sit down and pull and work each muscle. The dude was now in the boxing area. Punching and kicking. I swapped rowing, push-ups and sit ups—each time almost colliding with the Pink Lady. She was using kettle bells. The chatting duo was still at their stationery bike. Another huge chap joined another bike. But he was texting on his phone while working on his legs.

These days? We cannot leave our electronic gadgets alone. Come cloud, come storms, come bikes.

Everyone was busy.

It is always inspiring being around other equally motivated people, exercising passionately. I love it. I went to the bags and noticed the young dude was taking a break.

“You are not kicking hard,” he said, smiling.

“I don’t have to. I used to do that when I was your age. But you know the outcome?”

He glared at me. “What?”

“You damage your knees, your bones and joints. Let us speak 20 years from now if I am still alive.”

He waved his hand.

“Me? I don’t care what happens five years, fifty years from now. I do what I want. I would rather damage my knees than sit on the sofa watching the telly and thirty years later, I am sixty, fat, diabetic, and doctors say to me : don’t do this, don’t eat that. I see old men telling their children and grandchildren they wish they had exercised when they were younger. But it is too late.”

Too late.

I was young once. Younger males have an attitude of a never ending energy. Despite that youthful arrogance, the dude had a point. Better do something than sitting on the settee drinking and constructing a beer, mountain belly. Suicide.