So the GF wanted to go over to the “fitness center” in the apartment complex today, and I thought that it might be a good idea, as I haven’t been to the gym in a week. The place is maybe 15 x 10 into which is crammed two treadmills, two elliptical machines, two bikes, and one of those all-in-one weight lifting machines. There is also a jumprope, but no room to use it, in case you were wondering.

As you walk in the door, the treadmills are to the right, facing left, and the bikes are to the left, facing the same way. Between them is a narrow path just wide enough to walk through. I think this setup is so that runners can pretend that they’re chasing the guy that stole their bikes, and the bikers can pedal faster to get away from the crazy person chasing them. That’s just my expert opinion, mind you.

Anyway, as we walked in, there were two people on the bikes. They were in their late 50s, and doctorishly eccentric. They were reading magazines and photocopies, which I imagined were medical articles which were as boring to read as their titles were hard to pronounce. The woman wore librarian glasses, and the man had one of those 70’s “I’m playing tennis today” headbands on.

The TVs were off, and with the exception of the whirring of the bikes, the room was dead quiet. Even though the door is 3 feet from the bikes, the bikers never turned to even acknowledge that the door had been opened, nevermind to say, “Hello.” It was weird.

We hopped on the treadmills, and found that we were mouthing things to each other rather than breaking the stern silence imposed by the bikers. Out of nowhere, the man biker yelled “HOW FAST CAN YOU GET THIS THING TO GO?!” to the woman biker, who yelled back “150!!” and starts going absolutely nuts peddling. After thirty or so seconds, the guy yelled, “I THINK I CAN DO 200!!” and peddled hard enough to make his bike shake in three directions. It reminded me of children running through the yard yelling “Look how fast I can run! Look how fast I can run!”

Then, they both settled down, and whirring took control of the silence once again, leaving me wonder if these people were seeking attention, or had no concept that other people existed in the room. Mostly, this complex thought manifested itself in a simple, “What the fuck?” rolling through my head at intervals as irregular as my breathing.

At the one mile marker, the guy that stole my bike seemed to have died, head band and all, and was slumped over his bike. The woman that stole the girlfriend’s bike was doing yoga in front of my treadmill in an attempt to possibly bring his spirit back from the dead. As there is a 3 foot path in front of the treadmills, and mats at the other end of the room, I began my wondering if I truly existed or if this life was merely an illusion. Again this thought process manifested itself in the simple “What the fuck?”

I began staring at the ground, which is rather difficult when running on a treadmill, but was much more satisfying than taxing my brain with the questions that this woman was raising about my existence.

Finally, the biker guy must’ve gotten his heart started again, and the two of them went over to the mats and stuck their asses in the air for a while I stared at the jump rope.

Now, I belong to Gold’s Gym, which is supposedly one of the cheesiest, meat-headed gyms out there, where people are supposed to flex constantly, kiss their biceps and yell “BooYAH!” at regular two minute intervals, while strutting around like peacocks in tiger-striped spandex pants. I’ve seen a couple of people like that there, and they’re big as professional wrestlers with half the fat. As the peacock to human ratio is very low, I find it to be tolerable, and not the least bit uncomfortable. I think if those people want to kiss their biceps and show off, good for them, as there’s probably some people there that might dig it. But, generally to those people, I am not on their radar:

No one is. They are generally entertaining themselves.

Even if I was (which I don’t think I’ve ever been), I’m near them for a maximum of five minutes until my sets carry me across the gym. This is the beauty of the big cheesy gym: There’s no sense of being uncomfortable, as there is anonymity in the crowd, and plenty of room to get out of each other’s way.

To me, it’s ironic.

Posted in Misc., Philosophical BS