It’s official: the hunk is back. As The Spectator puts it, in 2024 ‘masculinity means muscularity’, and Hollywood is serving up a beefcake buffet: Twisters star Glen Powell as the storm-drenched tornado chaser; British actor Theo James in his barely there Dolce & Gabbana swimwear; Jeremy Allen White for Calvin Klein in pants working harder than a line cook during rush hour; and Paul Mescal, who has gone from Normal People to abnormally pumped for his role in Gladiator II.
Over in Silicon Valley, physical capital is social currency for billionaires. Have you seen Jeff Bezos recently? He’s so jacked he could probably run to London carrying the mattress I’ve just ordered on Amazon. For Mark Zuckerberg and Elon Musk, cage fights are the new frontier. (We’re still waiting, chaps.)
Enter any gym and you’ll find yourself in a sea of aspiring Adonises. I attend mine after work most days, as much to escape the isolation of my writer’s garret as anything else. Sometimes the first ‘Good morning’ I grunt is to the receptionist at 6pm. Truthfully, I feel a pressure to go regularly. Skipping a day leaves me with nagging guilt. Sometimes I struggle to enjoy well-deserved treats because I feel like I’m setting myself back. This standard I’ve set is both my greatest ally and my ball and chain. I went through a pudgy pre-teen period; maybe the therapist would start there. ‘Plenty to dissect,’ I’d agree, ‘but have you seen how deep I can Bulgarian split squat?’
There are upsides to this neurosis. What’s great about exercising is that while doing it, you can also make others feel miserable. With enough dedication, you can sculpt cheese-grater abs or build trapezius muscles so gargantuan you’ll need to register them as carry-on luggage. For immediate results, post some early-bird workout pics as your followers are fumbling for their phones, ensuring your sweat-waxed form is the first thing they see when they wake up.
Then, finally, you’ll be happy. Or will you?
To answer this question I’ve stepped out of the gym, trading treadmills for the meandering trails of Richmond Park. It’s a beautiful route flanked by great oaks with shafts of sunlight slashing through the leafy canopy. I am running with my friend Max Mears, a personal trainer and influencer. Ascending to influencer was the natural step for a man who runs a half marathon every morning before breakfast. He’s then in the gym for an hour and a half. By any measure, his physical condition places him in the upper tiers, where total sacrifice is par for the course. But I’m curious about what’s under the pectorals.
‘The culture is still growing, even now,’ he says. ‘I know so many people who go to dating run clubs – men with all the gear, girls in full make-up. Young people aren’t going to bars as much, they aren’t drinking.’
I ask Mears whether, being around clients all day, he hears a lot of stories.
‘Trainers are like therapists,’ he says. ‘I spend more time with some of them than I do with my partner. I hear all their problems. I think a lot of men employ a trainer because they want to talk. Some of them text me all day.’
Are they lonely, I wonder?
‘Maybe. Mental health is a big part of this world. There’s a dark side. I could have gone another way,’ he tells me as we hurdle a fallen tree. ‘So I channelled my energy into exercise, and it’s made a huge difference to my life. But I still see it as a vice. You have to control it. My partner thinks I’m addicted to running. But it’s keeping me away from other vices.’
So does Mears think there are many trainers who do it to escape something?
‘Yeah, so many. That’s the dark side,’ he says. ‘A lot of people become too obsessed, putting training, eating and body image over everything. On social media, they’re saying all the right things, but they’re paranoid about everything they eat. Sometimes I think, “Are these the right people to be looking after you?” But there’s a lot of unhappiness that goes with this level of dedication.’
So is Mears unhappy? ‘Not any more,’ he says. ‘I’m over comparing myself. I’m just trying to be better for myself. That’s what I encourage.’
As we carry on I wonder about my question, ‘Are you unhappy?’ Can anyone claim to have experienced unadulterated joy for more than a few days? Everyone is a jumble of disparate emotions. Happiness as an end goal might be a flawed objective. Human nature seems programmed to resist joy as frequently as we embrace it. When we commit to something, happiness doesn’t come into it – we are ready to suffer.
The beauty of exercise lies in its intangibility; it’s not a commodity to be purchased, but a practice rooted in consistency and self-discipline. Yet our minds aren’t always disciplined; our anxieties are constantly seeking new outlets, be it our careers, relationships or physical appearance. It’s hardly surprising that our species has turned health and fitness into a pathological obsession. But as far as pathological obsessions go, at least this one might give us some additional decades in which to agonise about everything.
In the evening, firmly installed on my sofa, my knees swollen and clicking like sacks of toothpicks after our 12k run, Max texts me. He ran home, just the additional 19k. I suppose we’re all running from ourselves; some just look better doing it.