Oh, the memories. The scent of old gym mats, the echo of squeaking sneakers and the ever-present, vaguely terrifying whistle of Coach Thompson. If you grew up any time before, say, the era of smartwatches and personal trainers for toddlers, you’ll likely remember the post-exertion ritual designed to transform us into miniature athletic scientists: the dreaded pulse check.
You’d just finished an agonizing mile run, or perhaps some bizarre calisthenics routine that felt specifically designed to test the limits of your adolescent joints. Sweat was pooling in places you didn't even know you had. Your lungs felt like deflated balloons and your legs had decided to stage a silent protest. And that’s when Coach Thompson, with the unwavering conviction of a man who firmly believed in abstract physiological monitoring, would bark, "Alright, everyone! Walk it off! And check your pulse!"
Then came the collective groan, followed by a flurry of awkward wrist-grabbing or neck-prodding for 30 seconds. Never mind that half of us were still gasping for air and the other half were trying to discreetly wipe their boogers on the gym shorts of the kid next to them. We were supposed to find a pulse. The pulse. And then, the pièce de résistance: "What’s your count, Johnson?"
Now, let’s be honest with each other. Did anyone, and I mean anyone, actually count their heartbeats per minute? Not a chance in hell. We were kids. Our brains were occupied with pressing matters like whether our crush saw us trip over our own feet or if we’d forgotten our lunch money. The idea of meticulously counting beats for 30 seconds and then multiplying by two was about as appealing as a pop quiz on the periodic table.
Our "reported" numbers were usually plucked from the ether, a wild guess based on how much we thought Coach wanted our pulse to be. "Uh… 80, Coach!" (Meanwhile, my heart was still pounding like a drum solo at a heavy metal concert, probably closer to 180, but 80 sounded responsible, didn't it?)
And seriously, for a bunch of pre-teens and teenagers, wasn't there a more practical, less performative approach to checking for distress? Instead of asking us to engage in an exercise in physiological guesswork, wouldn't it have been more sensible to simply inquire: "Hey, can you still breathe? Do you have any chest pains? Does it feel like you’re going to collapse into a sweaty heap and sob uncontrollably?" Those are the real indicators. Those are the questions that would actually tell you if little Timmy was having an issue, as opposed to his completely fabricated pulse rate.
Fast forward a few decades. I’m an adult now. A responsible, tax-paying, occasional-grunter-at-the-gym adult. My esteemed group of exercise buddies – coincidentally with the name Buff Boys – typically works out together five days a week. We hit the weights, we occasionally brave the treadmill for some truly harrowing sprints and we understand a thing or two about fitness cuz, well, you know, it's also our job as models outside of this coffee thing. Some of us even have actual training and education in this stuff. And guess what? Not once, not ever, have any of us checked our heart rate after a run. Gabe is even a marathon runner and he's never done it, despite wearing a watch so high-tech it could probably launch a spaceship into orbit.
We don't need a reading. Our bodies tell us. We know when we’ve pushed hard, when we’re recovered, and when it’s time to call an ambulance. The treadmill might have a fancy digital display flashing numbers that claim to be my heart rate based on some hand sensors I’ve probably never calibrated correctly, but that’s just background noise. Another distraction.
If I’m not wheezing like an asthmatic accordion and my legs aren’t threatening to stage a full-blown mutiny, I’m probably fine. It’s a gut feeling, an embodied understanding of exertion and recovery.
And let’s broaden the scope beyond my perfectly chiseled group of Buff Boy co-workers (except Collin, who's just not quite there yet).
I guarantee you, if you were to randomly stop 95 percent of adults – whether they’re at the gym, casually walking outside, or staring blankly at the dessert menu in a restaurant – and ask them two simple questions: "Do you know your resting heart rate?" or "What’s your heart rate after 10 minutes on a treadmill?", not a goddamn one of them would know!
They'd probably respond with a bewildered stare, a shrug or maybe a nervous laugh. Because, let’s face it, that fleeting, performative moment in gym class where we briefly pretended to count our pulses didn't exactly instil a lifelong habit of physiological self-monitoring. It taught us how to appear compliant, how to fake competence and perhaps how to hold our breath long enough to avoid being picked for dodgeball.
So, while I appreciate the noble intentions behind Coach Thompson’s insistence on the pulse check, I’m calling it: it was largely a pointless exercise in futility. A comedic interlude in the grand drama of adolescent gym class.
Our bodies, then and now, have a much more intuitive way of communicating their status. And frankly, I’d trade 100 fake pulse checks for one genuine, "Are you OK, kiddo?" any day of the week.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, my ripped left bicep is telling me it’s time for another protein shake. No pulse check required.