Personal trainers are de rigueur these days — so why does Ben Machell keep his a secret?

Once a week, early on Sunday mornings, I quietly slope off to a railway arch not far from where I live.

I go there to do something secret. Something embarrassing. Something I try to keep from my friends, family and the universe in general. I see a personal trainer. For a full 30 minutes, a man called Sapan will encourage me to do press-ups and chin-ups and lift weights while gazing at my own big, red, soggy, quivering body in a full-length mirror. Camp, hi-NRG dance music echoes around the empty gym space as he drinks a latte and chats about football and I do my very best not to be sick. As soon as we’re done, I’ll quickly leave, head down, like a punter coming out of a dirty book shop in Soho. But I will, without fail, be back the following week.

Why am I doing this? And why do I feel so sheepish about it? When I started I told myself that I was employing a personal trainer simply because I was getting deep into my 30s, and that it was sensible — responsible, even — to commit to something that forced me to exercise. But that’s just my cover story. Deep down, in some dark, preening recess of my psyche, lies the truth: I want to be ripped. Not ridiculously ripped. Not Marvel Cinematic Universe ripped. But ripped enough. Lean. Mean. With biceps that wink at you from under my T-shirt sleeves, pecs that exist in three dimensions rather than just two, and with a stomach that my children don’t find quite so… comfortable. That is what I want. It shames me to say it. But there you go. I never used to feel like this.

For the vast majority of my adult life body image wasn’t something I worried about. I was aware, albeit in a very abstract sense, that it was an issue that women had to contend with. But I could never entirely get my dense twentysomething male head around it. Being made to feel physically inadequate because of external societal pressures and expectations was, to me, a bit like having asthma, or being subject to nosebleeds in hot weather. I got that it was no fun. I got that it was something you probably just had to live with. But beyond that? There was only so far I could relate. I’d always made a grudging effort to keep weight off, but I wasn’t self-conscious or self-critical of how I looked in the buff, even though I’ve never been Michelangelo’s David. Unless, that is, Michelangelo also sculpted another, less famous David who enjoyed Ambrosia custard, Tetley’s bitter and novelty cereal with borderline-illegal sugar content. So what’s changed? Why am I, at 36 years old, standing in the bathroom, checking my stomach for abs with the same nervous care and attention I normally reserve for checking my testicles for lumps? The answer is easy. There are just an awful lot of highly visible, highly ripped men about now, from Poldark to porn stars, from Love Island contestants to every muscle-flexing Champions League goal celebration. It’s the zeitgeist.

Gym culture. Protein shakes. Shirtless selfies. Gains, gains, gains. Abs, lats, traps, delts, everywhere you look. The hench cover models of fitness magazines glowering down at you from the newsagent shelves, silently damning you for buying those Monster Munches. It’s embarrassing. I’ve spent most of my life assuming, smugly, that I’m immune to fashion and fads. That I’m above it. Only, it turns out that I’m not. Really, I’m just another sucker helping to finance the Abdominal Muscle Industrial Complex. And I’m not even sure who I’m trying to impress. If I was 21 and on Grindr it would make sense.

If my mates were all toned alpha gym bods, I might have an excuse. But neither of those things are true. Provided I don’t go full Jabba the Hutt, my girlfriend says she really isn’t fussed about how I look, and I believe her. And even if I somehow achieved the Spartan warrior physique of my increasingly odd dreams, it’s not like I’d ever want anybody to actually see. I mean, it would be mortifying. ‘Look,’ people would say. ‘Here comes Ben, who has lots of muscles and who is desperate for us to look at them.’ I don’t want that at all. No way. So again… who am I trying to impress? The only person I can think of is, well… me. Which is pointless. I’ll never be ripped enough to satisfy that dark, preening, recess of my psyche. Besides, I like cakes and crisps and cans too much. Also, deep down, I know that a measly 30 minutes a week isn’t really going to result in the shredded physique I see every day on Conor McGregor’s Instagram. I think it’s time I took a breath and got a grip. I’ll keep doing my Sunday morning exercises, but I’ll resign myself to a stomach that small children find comfortable.

Nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all.