I don't know what your exercise regiment is, but mine consists of carrying a 25 pound fancycam most everywhere I go. Throw in 14 pounds of tripod, along with a battery or three and you can probably grasp why I let my gym membership lapse. I'm kidding, of course. I've never owned a gym membership. Well, there was that brief period in the early 90's, but after a few visits it occurred to me I was paying a faceless corporation for the privilege of lifting heavy shit. That sort of scheme didn't set well with a stevedore like me, so I hung up my unitard and haven't worked out indoors since. Why should I - when I drove around with a bunch of high-dollar dumbbells in the back of my car.
Now, I'm no Doctor. But I did once chase a disgraced Dentist into a courthouse elevator and if I learned anything from it, it's that even a prissy hygienist will still throw wicked elbows if she feels her livelihood and/or skeevy boss is threatened. What exactly that has to do with the subject of tonight's post I haven't yet decided, but it does illustrate my gig's inherent risk of unplanned exertion... There's the squad car squat-thrust, a method of quick cockpit expulsion utilized whenever the ride-along suddenly turns into a foot-chase. You know, there's only one reason you never see a COPS cameraman stop mid-sprint and heave on a tree: editing.
Then there's the desperate stretch. Performed in courthouse corridors and winner's circles, this maneuver consists of hoisting your camera as high as physically possible. Try to remember to point the viewfinder tube down before you do. Otherwise all you can do is stare up into nothing and hope you don't drop the damn thing. Once you master that, you're ready for the thousand yard sweat, something I perfected just today when a certain PGA event turned into that egg-sucking scene from 'Cool Hand Luke'. Don't ask; just know that if Davis Love the third wants to take home another trophy, he'll stay upwind of your suddenly pungent pal.There are more forms of torture of course, but until these painkillers wear off, I probably won't get around to making them up....
In the meantime, hit the showers, will ya? That kind of camera-punk funk could melt the wax off TelePrompter glass. Then who's gonna lead our country?