Fitness

My Father's Fitness Rules

When your dad is the national chin-up champion, playtime involves hanging from bars and drills on the Roman chair...and the lessons endure long after childhood

By: Eric Villency; Photograph: Brad DeCecco
Published: December 2008/January 2009   [ Updated: Jan 29, 2009 - 10:55:49 AM ]

Like many teenagers, I looked forward all week to lazy Saturday mornings—you know, the kind where you surf your snooze button until noon. Growing up in my house though, sleeping late wasn't always on the agenda. One of my most vivid memories springs from when I was 14. My game plan had been simple enough: Sleep in, grab lunch, stroll over to Central Park to play football with my buddies. But then a loud rustling awoke me at 7 a.m. Through bleary eyes, I could make out a muscular intruder standing in my room, holding a large object.

My visitor's identity was unmistakable: Dad. Standing in front of the posters on my bedroom walls, he took his place among sports stars and action heroes. There they were: LT, Mark Bavaro, Patrick Ewing, Conan the Barbarian, and...my dad, Robert Villency, 55 years old, wearing his battle uniform: Adidas shorts that John Stockton would judge too short, tube socks, bare chest. In place of a sword, he was holding a (very large) trophy. No, this wasn't the '70s, but that's how Dad rolled—and still rolls. He clearly had something on his mind after his morning workout, but Dad being Dad, I knew I'd have to coax it out of him.

Me: "Hey, Pop, what's up?"

Him: "Not much, just worked out."

Me: "Uh, what's that in your hand?"

Him: "Oh, this?" looking at the five-foot trophy as if I had just pointed out the missing glasses perched atop his head. "Yeah, just won the national chin-up championship...again. You working out today, kid?"

From an early age, my father made exercise and sports not just part of the family lifestyle, but the foundation of our relationship. I gradually became aware that my father was fanatical—and quirky—about fitness. His way of discussing the finer points of exercise has always been more about "show" than "tell." We worked out together every summer. I remember long runs on hot days: me with my new-age Nike Airs that always managed to elicit a look of disdain from my old man, him with his wrist weights and Sauconys that looked as if he'd fished them out of a trash bin. I'd keep up for a mile or two before I fell behind. There wasn't a whole lot of conversation, just the thrum of shoes hitting pavement. Once, on a blazing day, I went out too fast and made the mistake of stopping. Dad saw me walking as he lapped me. He never said anything, but the disappointment etched on his face told me all I needed to know.