I wanted this to exist. It did not.

That is the whole origin story, and I am sorry it is not a better one. No garage epiphany, no health scare, no gap in the market spotted from a helicopter. I went looking for a proper record of my own training, failed to find one for an embarrassingly long time, and eventually worked out that this was because there wasn't one.

So I am building it for myself. You are extremely welcome to come along.

What actually happened.

I went looking for it.
Not a workout tracker. A record: everything I had lifted, every scan I had paid a small fortune for, everything the watch had been quietly collecting while I ignored it, in one place, over a long enough stretch to mean something. I assumed it existed. I assumed I was simply bad at searching.
They were all the same app wearing different logos.
Same four decisions every time. My data in pieces across apps on non-speaking terms. This week on screen, five years nowhere. A little flame treating a grown adult like a lapsed newsletter subscriber. And every number stripped of the day, the hour and the room it happened in, which is roughly like keeping the score and burning the photographs.
So I stopped looking and wrote it.
I write software for a living, at offgridsoftware, which meant I had run out of excuses at some point around year eight. I am the first user and still the main one. What gets built next is whatever I need to see next, which I would argue is a sturdier guarantee than any roadmap, because I cannot quietly deprioritise myself.

Four things they all get wrong.

None of these is a hard engineering problem. They are choices, and perfectly rational ones: a product you open every day is worth considerably more to its owners than a product that tells you something true once a quarter. Rational for them, at any rate.

Your data is in four places and speaks to nobody.
The watch knows your heart rate. One app knows your lifts. A PDF you have opened once knows your body composition. None of them are on speaking terms, so nothing anywhere holds the whole picture. Least of all you, who paid for all three.
They show you this week.
Seven days is a status update. The interesting question is what five years look like, and it is the one question none of them will answer, possibly because a person who can see five years clearly starts to feel rather calm about a bad Tuesday, and calm people do not open apps very often.
The streak is for them, not for you.
Badges, flames, red rings and a light daily guilt. It is engagement machinery aimed at an adult who has already decided to train, which is a bit like nagging someone who is halfway through the washing up. Effort deserves acknowledgement. It does not need a small animated fire sulking at you because you had a hard week in March.
They throw the context away.
A number without its circumstances is a rumour. Three fifteen for fifteen is a statistic. Three fifteen for fifteen at ten past six on a Tuesday, at the gym you had spent the whole drive talking yourself out of, is a story you will happily reread in a decade. They keep the statistic and bin the story, which is precisely the wrong way round.

What it will never do.

Anyone can promise to be lovely. A promise is only worth something if you would be able to catch me breaking it, which is why these are all written in the negative.

Sell, rent or quietly share your record with anyone.
Tell you your form was good, because it cannot see you.
Promise that any of this prevents injury.
Read your genetics as a verdict rather than a hand you are playing.
Turn a rest week into a red number and call that motivation.
Hold your decade hostage to make cancelling feel expensive.

That is the entire pitch.

One person, one fairly strong opinion about what a training record ought to be, and four dollars a month, which buys you the pleasant status of being the customer rather than the inventory. Thirty days free first, and the waitlist goes in ahead of everyone. If that sounds like your sort of thing, the form asks for four things and I am the one who reads them.