So I’m in the gym - at midday – along with a lot of other would-be “entrepreneurs” on “career breaks”. It’s quite busy with an assortment of my fellow citizens exercising away with varying degrees of success. It’s difficult to tell though who is on a genuine career break; who is bunking off work; who just can’t be bovvered with the principle of work; or who might have made their cash already and are now just killing time at the Streatham leisure centre; or to be fair those who might just be on their lunch break! Given that I live in an area that is best described as “up-and-coming” I will leave you to guess which category might be in the majority. (It’s the hip entrepreneurial types like me for sure!)
I am on a mat in the stretching area doing some rehabilitation work on my right leg. You see I managed to be the first person in history to tweak a nerve in my lower back in a stretch called “Child’s Pose” – about the world’s most innocuous yoga position. Breath-in, breath-out, check-out-my-third-eye and Bam! - lower back reacts in a very unyogi-like manner and I find myself semi-crippled with a leg that doesn’t perform crucial functions – like walking!! Anyway that was sometime ago and now, like any other elite athlete, I have an intensive rehabilitation programme that I am sort of following.
The stretching area is tucked away in the corner of the gym and it’s not very big area so that those who choose to finish their routine off with a stretch have to be spatially aware of other exercisers legs, arms, feet, hands etc
I am working on twisting my trunk (easy….) and I hear this voice behind me start talking about taking his shirt off. I am like “Whoah Dude” that is not gym etiquette; no matter how ripped you feel you save the self-love for the changing room. Not this guy, no sir. Off comes the vest and I am confronted with a mirror full of bulging biceps, pumped pectorals, washboard stomach muscles and a fair amount of perspiration to boot. Naturally I can’t help but look (the stretching area is the size of a postage stamp as per the above) but given that I am not prone to gawking at other men’s physiques in the gym I try and avert my gaze. Alas-and-alak the guy sees it as an opportunity to continue talking through his weights routine and how amped he feels about his workout.
The thing of it was is that I couldn’t work out whether he was actually engaging me in conversation or whether he was just chattering to himself. You see a fair amount of the latter on London buses – around midday in fact – but it’s my first encounter in a gymnasium; and it’s not exactly like I could change seats or anything. (Now before anyone gets tense; given that I have more time and patience these days I don’t mind taking the bus and having a crazy-assed dude talk me through how he flew across London on his broomstick during the Great Fire.)
Anyway this went on for about five minutes; me pretending that he wasn’t there (my routine suddenly had me face down a lot!) and him continuing with his posing and related commentary until eventually he put his vest back on and sauntered out of the stretching area, still muttering loudly to himself. So yes, I was right, a crazy-assed muscleman! (Sorry a gentleman who likes to freely dispense his bodybuilding insights – and the results thereof - with anyone who cares to listen.)
And before anyone makes the leap to “he’s making light of people with mental health problems” please jump off that bandwagon. I’m not. For all I know my friend on the broomstick and Mr Muscles are perfectly sane. As it is I talk to myself all the time (these days it’s about convincing myself that having no formal employment is a good thing!) and of course we all sing in the shower. Some of us will even find ourselves inadvertently singing along to a tune with our headphones on, in a packed London tube! Everyone needs a little bit of crazy to keep them sane in this day-and-age. I just wish I had slightly more interesting material like raging fires and broomsticks or better still that I actually had the body of Greek God!
OUT.