Exceptional Student Work: 'UCLA Is a Fitness Cult'

In which current Comp 3 student Henry J. drops some honest knowledge about how to lift things that feel too heavy

Photo by Rosalind Chang on Unsplash

I’m still buzzing from the end of the quarter. But it’s not quite over yet! So I can reasonably call Henry J. a current student. A bit tentative at first, Henry muscled his way into the course, getting more and more brave each week. I haven’t read his final paper yet, but if his week nine mini-essay is any indication, he’s reached a new height in his powers.

But what makes for good writing? I suppose it will always be a matter of taste.

I was moved when Antonio called our Reese and Derek as the people whose essays he had most admired this winter. (He didn’t say exactly why, nor did he use the word admired. It was more Gen Z speech, something like, “You guys were chill.”) But why the two of them? Would I pick the same? Who did other people in the class gravitate toward? Why?

Another person, in their farewell, reflected on how writing is neither science nor just art—it’s just a mysterious and wonderful combination.

I can’t prove that Henry is great, but I know I like his stuff. Here goes:

One Plate

By Henry J.

UCLA’s campus is a fitness cult disguised as a college. Whenever you look, there is always someone jogging uphills, and it seems like a warm-up for them. Meanwhile, there’s me, a guy whose idea of cardio was sprinting to the dining hall before people started to pile up. During my first week, I had to walk from my dorm to a morning class. Twenty minutes. That’s it. But halfway into it, my legs trembled, and my shirt is drenched. I entered the room gasping. It’s not unusual to see people coming into class with such red face, but to be honest, I wasn’t even running like others did, and nobody knew how invisible I felt trying to keep up. One day, my roommate took me on a quick hike with friends. It’s easy,” he said. “Just a trail.” It turns out, “easy” in our school translates to “straight up a mountain.” Five minutes in, my lungs felt like they were burning, and the soreness starts to radiate down my legs. The group continued talking and laughing in front of me as I lagged behind. I would look down at my phone to feign interest in some random articles, pretending to look busy. A man wearing bright shorts jogged by, smiled and said, “You got this,” like I was a lost puppy. I wanted to answer, “I don’t got this,” but I just nodded. At that moment, I felt like a deflated balloon at a birthday party. That hike changed something. For the first time, I was ashamed of how weak I felt; embarrassed for having steered clear of gyms my entire life. Overtimes, I had developed a mindset of “‘I will start tomorrow”. I sat in my dorm and scrolled through Instagram photos of classmates surfing, hiking, and running and I felt like I didn’t belong here.

So I started small. Like, really small. I used the stairs and not the elevator. I would walk to the gym at night when no one was around, and stare at the machines as if they were aliens. The first time I tried the treadmill, I lasted 10 minutes. Then came the bench press. People were doing exactly like what I saw in those fitness memes my friends would send me. They made it look easy. All you do is lie back, grab the bar, and press. No big deal. But when I attempted it, it was a really big deal. The next day, I waited until the gym was nearly empty, which at UCLA is something like 11:30 p.m. on a Tuesday. The bar was heavier than it appeared, and that is when I began overthinking. What if I dropped it? What if I couldn’t lift it? What if somebody saw me and put it on TikTok? Still, I gripped the bar and pushed. My arms shook like I was holding up the ceiling. I managed three reps before my muscles gave up. Three. That’s it. I sat up and looked around to make sure no one saw, and felt a mix of pride and embarrassment.

But I went back. The next week, I did four reps. Then I added a little more weight. It wasn’t much, but it was progress. And for the first time, I realized that fitness isn’t about being the strongest or the fastest; It’s about being consistent doing a little more than you did yesterday. Now, when I see someone bench pressing like a pro, I don’t feel ashamed anymore. I just think that’s gonna be me someday. And for now, one plate is good enough.