With the recent spate of warm weather, it feels as though spring is already upon us. Which means one thing: less clothing. And, with bathing suit season just a few months further, the likelihood of much less clothing in the near future.

Which, so far as I can tell, is the main motivation behind getting in shape: the desire to look good naked, or in some scantily clad approximation thereof. Of course, there are plenty of other reasons as well; living longer and healthier certainly spring to mind. Still, whatever your motivation, I hope you enjoy and benefit from this short series of ‘shape up’ posts about fitness.

Am I qualified to dispense advice on the topic? Probably not. But as there’s nothing like the specter of getting beat up in front of large crowds (the joy of competing in full-contact combat sports) to keep you motivated, over the past five years, I’ve methodically examined the science behind all kinds of fitness ideas. Then I’ve practiced what I’m about to preach, and I’ve been impressed by the results. With fairly minimal time and effort, I’ve managed to push myself into the best shape of my life, keeping my body fat at 6-8% year round, and ending up faster, stronger, more flexible and generally better feeling than I’ve ever been in the process.

While I’m hoping to flesh out ideas on training for athletes interested in high-end competition elsewhere, this series is a bit more narrow in scope. In short, it looks at the question, “what’s the very least I can do to get into excellent shape?” I hope you not only enjoy it, but put some of the ideas to work in your own life. I think you’ll be impressed by the results.

This morning, after several months off, I returned to Ronin Combat Athletics to resume mixed martial arts (i.e. “no holds barred”) training. I’d been working out regularly during my time away, so at least I was rarely left winded, but there’s no amount of throwing around weights that can prepare you for being actually thrown around yourself. I came home this afternoon with an assortment of cuts, bruises, aches and pains likely to stick with me for at least the next few days. By which time, I’ll head back in for another practice and start the cycle of suffering all over again.

No pain, no gain.

[Side note: oddly, though most of the people who train at Ronin are well over six feet and two hundred pounds, today was apparently the Lollipop Kid special. Aside from one really tall guy (who we nicknamed Gulliver for the day), the rest of the group was comprised of literally all the Ronin fighters under 5’8″. Which, while I would have though would be easier, was actually tougher, as we had apparently all developed the same dirty tricks and leverage-(rather than strength-)based techniques. That made squaring off against people my own size sort of like fighting fire with fire. Still, I can at least finally understand why the really big guys hate to spar with me; constantly keeping pace with fast-moving little pit-bull types really tires you out.]

While most people would let the tropical locale throw off their workout routine, I’ve managed to keep my nose to the grindstone, sticking to a strenuous circuit training program: beach, pool, hot tub, pina colada, repeat.

Had you asked me this morning, I’d have said I thought I was in fairly good shape; a few hours a week at the gym had, I assumed, paid off. Yet this evening, at the end of two hours of training mixed martial arts (a.k.a. “no holds barred fighting”) with the New York branch of the Straight Blast Gym, I was lying on the mat, covered in bruises and gasping for air. Even now, some three and a half hours later, I’m still sweating profusely.

So, glutton for punishment that I am, I’ve signed on to train with them several times a week. And I’ll be headed back to the gym with a keen understanding of the form vs. function distinction. That six pack alone, I’ve realized, doesn’t necessarily mean you’re anywhere near peak.

You know you’ve had a good workout when, after coming back from the gym, you close your eyes for a moment while taking off your sneakers and suddenly wake up 45 minutes later.

While I’ve made good progress in my aforementioned muscle-gain efforts, I recently began to question whether the results were worth the work. Up twelve pounds of lean mass, and the difference was only slightly noticeable. Should I keep packing on the pounds, I wondered? And, if so, how many?

Sure, I had a sense of what might happen if I went wildly too far; Sylvester Stallone and I, for example, measure in at the same height, though he tips the scales a solid 50 pounds past my comparatively svelte 145. But while I’d have no desire to climb anywhere near Rocky’s steroidal ridiculosity, there’s certainly a rather large gray area between me and the former (fictional) heavyweight champion of the world. Wasn’t there some more aesthetic weight in between, I wondered? One where people, upon seeing me, might assume that I went to the gym, but not that I lived there?

Then, this weekend, as part of a wild movie-watching spree (an occupational hazard of film producing), I popped in to catch The Italian Job, a bland yet resonably enjoyable big-budget heist film. After, rooting around the web to find the various stars’ filmographies, I discovered that Mark Wahlberg also matches my height, and weighs in just past 165. There was my answer. While I don’t wear Rambo-esque headbands (okay, maybe occasionally), I certainly own enough Calvin Klein’s to make Marky Mark proud.

So, 165. Not that I could pack on another fifteen or twenty pounds of muscle any time soon. But it’s nice to know that, if I could, it would likely be well worth the work.

Most people, while under stress, gain weight. I, on the other hand, lose it. After several months of producing I Love Your Work, I therefore noticed I had dropped down to the bottom reaches of my acceptable weight range. Which is why, about a month back, with beach season (or, at least, bicep-baring t-shirt season) fast encroaching, I figured it was time to hit the gym with the intent of bulking up. The plan in a nutshell:

1. Join a gym. Mid-City Gym (49th and 8th), being two blocks off and $45 a month, seemed the right choice. Sure, it’s short on glitz and Tae-bo compared to the $150 a month gyms nearby, but as the former New York training ground of such heavies as Ah-nold and Lou Ferrigno it certainly seemed good enough for my cause.

2. Lift weights. As it’s worked for me before in packing back on the pounds, following the Hardgainer approach of short, intense, infrequent workouts with heavy weights.

3. Eat a lot. Building muscle requires a caloric surplus, something my metabolism, which runs at a rather disturbingly fast rate, works hard to prevent. (As one friend pointed out, since research in rats has shown slowing metabolism extends lifespan, given the speed at which mine burns, I’ll probably keel over by the time I hit thirty.) I already tend to naturally eat five or six meals a day; bulking up mainly involves increasing the size of each feeding. Thank god for FreshDirect.

The results? One month in, and I’ve packed on nearly ten pounds of muscle while keeping my body fat below 10%. Still, I’m thinking I’ll keep adding weight for a bit longer, just to see where it takes me. While I have no desire to hit anything close to the steroidal bodybuilding look, as Stallone (the same height as I am) was a good fifty pounds beyond my current weight back in his Rocky days, I think I still have a fair bit of leeway before I’m mistaken for Hans or Franz.

Earlier today, I hit the mats at the New York Aikikai for my third Aikido class. It’s good to be back to training a martial art regularly, after my eight or nine month self-imposed hiatus – last summer, I had recurrently dislocated my right shoulder while sparring in preparation for a mixed martial arts (i.e. “no holds barred”) tournament, and I took the time off to rest up my rotator cuff before seriously damaging myself. During the break, however, I started giving some serious thought to my motivation for training, as with a bit of distance, I began to see the brutal violence inherent in Muay Thai and Brazilian Jiu Jitsu (the two arts I was studying at the time) didn’t square well with my more peaceful overall view of the world.

So, in the hopes of finding an art more philosophically in tune with myself, I decided to return to Aikido, which I had studied for about eight months while a student at Yale. A system of throws and joint locks derived from jujitsu, Aikido focuses not on punching or kicking opponents, but on using their own energy to gain control of them or to throw them away. Frequently referred to as “the art of peace,” Aikido is effective while inherently non-aggressive, focusing on neutralizing opponents without injuring them. So far, at least, it seems like the perfect match, and I’m thinking I may jettison the other arts in favor of training solely Aikido.

And, as an added bonus, I’ve also been perversely enjoying the exceeding frustration of starting a complicated art as a complete beginner. It’s been a while since I’ve forced myself to regularly do something at which I’m so very, very bad.

To continue being a whiny bitch: yesterday, while at the gym, I threw out my neck. Mid-way through a heavy leg press, my phone rang; apparently, a sudden head motion while straining every muscle in your body isn’t a good idea.

On the plus side, I’ve now picked up a great set of Mr. Roboto-esque moves involving turning my entire body rather than simply my head any time I need to look to the side. Sort of retro ’80s breakdance chic.