“WANTED: Meaningful Overnight Relationship”
I almost did a Starbucks spit-take when I read that one this morning….on a chick’s car.
Archive for the ‘Sports & Fitness’ Category
I am, perhaps, uniquely qualified to criticize what I think is odd behavior and/or attire at the gym. You see, a skinny, old, bald dude like me could be considered quite out of place in the weight room. However, since I have set my pride aside and subjected myself to the potential ridicule that might follow me in there, I am able, ready, and willing to cast the first stone at anyone who is even the slightest bit out of place.
Today I saw the cake taker.
This guy’s costume consists of a button-up, black, short-sleeved shirt, nicely pressed polyester slacks, and desert sandals (despite the posted warnings against open-toed footwears). His uncomfortable smile displays a prominent row of white upper teeth, their whiteness further celebrated against his skin of cafe-mocha. He is the spitting image of Hicham Elgerouj with a splash of Said Aouitta thrown in. He wears the sleeves of his shirt rolled up as if to expose more of his monster python guns. Sadly his biceps muscle is nothing more than a thin band of tissue that runs down the length of his Humerus. If he were a background actor on the set of “A River Runs Through It,” his arms might occasionally disappear behind the fishing line as it swishes through the air on a “four count rhythm and a hope that fish will rise.”
Far too often for my taste, this guy flexes his bicep and looks at it closely. I’m not sure if his look says, “Yes, check you out! You’re huge!” Or if it laments “why won’t you grow”? Either way it’s laughable to me that he thinks his bizarre random wandering “workout” is going to yield any results. Aside from the fact that he is fighting his own body type (shoulda been a marathoner), he clearly has no clue what he is doing in there.
He slowly walks up to the pull down machine, grabs the handle, tries to pull it down, can’t budge it, checks his flex, and wanders to the next machine. He stops at the Dip/Chin-up Assist. He walks up the steps, grabs the handle above his head, steps on the assist step, hangs there for a second, then lets the weight back up by bringing his knees up to his chest, presses it back down, repeats several times, then dismounts and checks his guns. Hmmmm, no change? Go figure.
Please do weigh in on the following scenario:
Let’s say you and a few friends…well not friends so much as acquaintances through mutual interest in a sport. Let’s use soccer (or futbol if you like) since most could relate to that. OK, let’s say you and 6 soccer “teammates” plan to drive 447 miles one way to a tournament (obviously you’ll also drive around a bit while there, and drive the 447 back too). The plan is to take 2 cars and split the gas cost and crash at a friend’s house. That would make the trip pretty cheap.
Then, two days before you leave, another player offers up a 27-foot camper cruiser that would fit all 7 adults including sleeping space. A comfy ride over, place to play cards or otherwise kill time on the way, a fridge, a potty, beds, and an aunty’s house to park at night, etc… Everyone agrees it sounds like fun and will still be cheap to split the cost across seven players.
At the end of the trip, as the cruiser pulls into town at 3 a.m., the owner lets everyone know their share is $50 each. That is $10 higher than the pre-trip estimate. Secretly, the owner had let me know (apparently I was the litmus) the total gas cost was only split by 6 instead of 7; the owner was not pitching in for gas. The justification provided was nobody else had mileage or wear and tear put on their vehicle, only the camper cruiser. Oh, and nobody was going to help clean up when the trip was over.
I have been on many many such road trips to tournaments in my day. I’ve never been in a camper cruiser before, but I’ve also never seen it where the owner didn’t pitch in for gas at all. For me, the extra $5 or $10 I had to kick in because of that would not change my lifestyle noticeably so I put my mouthguard in, paid the $50, and left. Others in more difficult financial straits than I were not so alacritous with their payment. (Perhaps I was not a valid control group?)
Now, I put it to you: have you heard of this before? Has it happened to you? Does it seem fair and reasonable? What would you do in this situation?
Sound off.
Prince (the “musician/artist”) recorded the song “Kiss.” Tom Jones covered it later. Some people think it’s the other way round. I like the Tom Jones version better. I like Tom Jones better. I don’t really even like Prince at all. I never saw “Purple Rain” or drove a Red Corvette. But I did refer to a girl I dated as “Raspberry Beret” for a while. It just goes to show you.
Today in the gym the radio was tuned to BOB. You know, the “we play anything” station? It really is a terrendous perpetration upon the listener (I thought I coined the term “terrendous” as a synthesis of “terrible” and “horrendous” but Google quickly proved me late to the party). True to its horrendible form, BOB soon plays Prince’s version of “Kiss.” I get up to go change the station and pass by the tall, handsome, fitness-junkie known as “Beau.” He is spinning leisurely on the stationary bike and air-singing along with Prince. I watch Beau for a moment, long enough to learn his motivational tool for fitness, for stemming the unstemmable tide, for keeping that grim reaper at bay: he is reading the Obituaries in the local paper.
“Hey, whatever it takes brother,” I think to myself as I continue my hunched and deliberate walk to the radio. And that is when I put an asterisk (”astrik” to some) on that very last thought. You see, I like to delude myself that I am a l’aissez faire kinda guy, a live-and-let-live type (picture Honeybear laughing out loud). But the truth is, there are any number of things that set me off. Myriad triggers if you will. Multiple hot buttons. Case in point: whenever I see Jeff in the gym I pretty much lose all tolerance whatsoever.
Jeff (his real name), either has only one pair of shorts, or he has many many pairs of the same exact kind. Same size, same color. That, in and of itself, would not be so bad. But it’s the style and fit of the shorts that gets to me. They’re gray. They’re short. They’re tight. Too tight. Way too tight.
Except Jeff is a dude, and a religious worker-outer. Nearly everyday he puts it to the stair climber in a slow motion kind of death march, his calves popping out something fierce. Somehow he manages to completely soak his second-skin shorts. After climb-climbing his way to drenched fitness, he grabs a mag and sits down on the floor against the wall to rest. He faces the room with his knees up and spread wide apart as if to air out the saturation below (that could be a good movie title: ”The Saturation Below” starring Julia Roberts and Brad Pitt opens this Thursday at a theater near you…). I don’t think I need to draw a picture, suffice it to say his whole soggy business is on display. Terrendible.
But Jeff has another surprise in store. In the tiny locker room, he likes to stand butt naked against the counter facing the mirror. In order to make it to the showers from the lockers or vice versa, one must plot a careful path around behind Jeff’s nakedness just to avoid making contact. It’s right in the middle of everything for crying out loud. His bits graze the counter as he combs his hair and hums a non-chalant tune. He hums as if to show how natural it is to be totally nude and in everybody’s way. I think he is proving the polar opposite of what’s natural.
Wait, here comes Ricardo. He is all sweaty from a rousing game of futbol out on the pitch. He wears his underwear into the shower stall, closes the curtain, takes the underwears off and drops them outside the stall, he showers, dries off in the stall, reaches out to pick up his underwear, puts them back on, then steps out of the shower.
How is it Jeff doesn’t pick up on this stark contrast playing out right in front (err behind) him? Obviously it is not “whatever it takes.” Far from it. At this point I’m just hoping we can standardize on a global process somewhere between Jeff and Ricardo.
Back when I thought I was fit, I ran in a fun run. This was to celebrate a notable birthday of the Boneroller, which makes it just about ten years ago. The April Fool’s fun run was a 3 mile experience, after which a brunch was scheduled.
I was more of the sprint-and-rest kind of fit. But, I decided this morning to go out with the Boneroller and the other leaders just to see what it felt like. I ran that first mile faster than I ever had before, faster than I ever have since – about 6 minutes, not world record or anything but I was pretty impressed.
Mile two took 8 minutes and started to become uncomfortable.
Mile three took eleven minutes and included the lowest point in my athletic career. I was coming down the back stretch along Fort Street. I bonked. I had to walk, hands over head, pretty much spent. I was approaching an intersection, at which waited a crossing guard to make sure I navigated the traffic successfully. Just as I got close to this intersection, I heard the tread of footsteps. A runner was about to pass me. Well, more power to him. At that moment I thought I might never run again. I was just hoping not to see either of my lungs any time soon.
The runner in question turned out to be an eight year old girl with sneakers that lit up red on the heels with every step. As she pat-pat-patted around me, she said, “You can do it! Don’t give up!” I brought my head up and accidentally met the gaze of the crossing guard, a young man about my age. He didn’t even try to hide the grin.
“Dude, ouch. Dude.”
I ran that little bitch down with 100 yards to spare.
I see this guy at the gym all the time. He’s stacked like a mother. He sports a kind of modified jarhead do; looks like his yarmulke has slipped too far forward. He resembles a hardy Russian, and scowling constantly, he could be the muscle in some Eastern Block organized crime syndicate. An imposing figure, he appears to be somebody that one does not trifle with.
I’ve only ever seen him do two different exercises. Both are aimed at blowing up his guns and I believe it’s working. His arms are bigger than my legs, and probably stronger too. I’ve casually gauged his progress: a few months ago he was able to strap three 45-pound weight plates onto a chain around his hip belt and muster a couple sets of 1 dip each. Now he can do a legitimate dip and a half with four 45-pound plates in tow. There must be supplements involved in his stacking.
The production effort of getting the dip assist machine all ready for his routine really is quite a spectacle to behold. I have been known to stare at it. I see people staring and commenting and wondering at it all the time. It seems to me that between his costume, his size, his routine, his sweat pools, and his grunting noises, people are going to geek him. He must know it comes with the territory.
Yesterday, he’s sitting and dripping on the steps of the dip assist with four plates strapped on, resting between sets. I, with earbuds pinned, approach the dip stand right next to him. As I am preparing to mount up, our eyes meet and his mouth is moving. I quickly look away. When I look back he is looking at me and his mouth is moving. I invoke the pause button on my iPod Shuffle and say: “Whathith”?
He won’t make eye contact, rather he shifts his gaze to and from me. But his message is clear:
“Stop looking at me man. You make me nervous.”
I make him nervous?
I make him nervous.
MLB news out of Florida yesterday:
“LAKELAND, Fla. (AP)—The Detroit Tigers placed left-handed pitcher Dontrelle Willis on the 15-day disabled list with an anxiety disorder…
But Willis said he has been feeling well on and off the mound.
“I have no idea, but (the doctors) didn’t like what they saw in the blood,” Willis said. “This is not something where I’m too amped up and I don’t know where I’m at, and I’m running sprints up and down the parking lot.”
General manager Dave Dombrowski said he could not provide details about Willis’ medical condition or treatment because of privacy regulations.”
I, however, am not restricted by any such privacy restraints. My “anxiety disorder” is not likely to manifest itself in my blood or get me any time off work. But I’m thinking I’ll talk to my boss anyway and see…
Congratulations to Japan! Once again they put together the best team in the world. Also, a hearty “3 Cheers” goes to the Japan team stylists for their use of sideburns in proving what a visionary Gene Roddenberry was:
Here are a few facts:
1. I pay approximately $100 (USD) per month for my foursome to have a gym membership.
2. I opted out of the additional $10 per month for the gym to provide us with a couple of towels each visit.
3. Honeybear doesn’t use the gym showers unless she takes the kids swimming. In that case she is fine with taking our own towels from home.
4. I am fine with taking my own towel from home for when I use the gym showers.
I had a moment of anxiety today as I was walking in to the gym. The towel I grabbed from home was white like the gym-issued ones. I imagined the gym worker seeing me jam it into my gym bag and asking me if I intended to swipe their towel.
“As if. Please. Do I look like I need to steal a towel from the gym when I can buy one for $2.49 from Target right down the street”? I rehearse my come back in my head.
“Besides,” I continue, “What brand of towels do you use here”?
I pull my towel out to show the tag. “See here? Mine is clearly not one of yours. The brand is…”
I look at the tag. It clearly says “Hampton Inn & Suites.”
I use both handles to pull my creaking bones up off the recline leg press machine. There’s two plates on each side and I just knocked out 15 easy, controlled reps. A big ol’ boy is lurking. He looks like he wants on the machine and I’ve got three more sets. Plus I got the earbuds pegged and I am trying like crazy to avoid eye contact. He shouts over the headphones: “Can I work in a set”?
“Sure thing,” I say, “I gotta rest don’t I”?
This big boy goes about 6′2″ maybe 220 and his mass makes a stark contrast to mine (I recently received the long-awaited results and I am, in fact, not riding a chicken). But big boy gets down to lift the same 2 plates as me. I turn away just to be safe. When I see him stand up, I head back over. He asks me if I have another set and I say I do. He asks me, “Was I doing them right”? I tell him I wasn’t watching and he asks if it’s Ok if he watches me.
“You bet,” I say as I move to put another plate on each side. Who knew? Me, a model of strength and fitness to be copied.
I am well aware of the onslaught of “resolutioners” flocking to the gym. I am sure you know who they are. And if you can’t spot one, well, then you probably are one. The reason you stick out is not because of your dumbfounded look when trying to figure out how to use a treadmill. It is also your attire and general presence.
This is certainly a pet peeve. In fact it is PET PEEVE #4 on my list. That’s top five if anyone is on top of their math skills. (This is no BCS poll either.) And I would usually throw something up on “The Sidelines” but this peeve merits elaboration.
So for all the gym inhabitants, dial in on some of my beliefs about gym culture as I weigh in on my concerns. After all, I have been frequenting this atmosphere over half my life.
Now I come from an old school mentality. You know, the kind that Arnold made famous. No, not the new Gold’s Gym, the Arnold Gold’s Gym. Where concrete, iron, and rubber grace the area. A gym where blood, sweat, and tears happen. A gym with trash cans in close proximity for easy disposal of the days undigested lunch coming back around for seconds. A place for a purpose and one purpose only… get in shape. But I also realize that I graduated from that scene over eight years ago and I understood that my “new” gym experience would be and is different. And I completely understand that not everyone has been in an actual, “real,” workout facility. And though I have gotten older, this kind of mentality still rests in the back of my mind and there are some things I just can’t handle.
A rundown. The clothes you wear outside (social, public, etc.) should not be worn while you sweat your way on the stair climber, or any machine for that matter. I realize you take the elevator at work and I bet you don’t wear shorts there. Half the battle of getting in shape is finding the right attire to sweat in; clothes you are not worried about getting dirty.
Hats are not allowed either. There is no sun, you are not fielding fly balls, or fishing on a pond. Especially the hats cocked to the side, “hip hop” style. Are we here for a music video or a workout? No phones, no pagers. Tank tops I am not on board with either. I know mirrors surround the place but that is for looking at technique and making the place look bigger, not for making you look bigger. Talk Heavy to Me
iPods are okay and thanks to K-Phil there are Earbud Politics you should probably look into. It will explain why iPods are positive in the gym workout space. Towels and wipe-downs I am definitely on board with, especially with some of you beasts I have to follow. Really appreciate that courtesy. Sports bras are only allowed on a select few. Of course, that is a judgment call and most of you don’t make 1st team, let alone honorable mention.
Shorts, t-shirts, sweat/track pants, and sneakers must be worn at all times. Basically take “no shoes, no shirt, no service” and up it a few steps. In fact, about the only skin I would like to see are arms, legs, and face. Even that is stretching it. While we’re at it, maybe just come in with a body suit, hoody and all. I just want to see your face.
Seriously, I just ask that you take a brief moment and think about what you’re doing in the gym atmosphere. If you have questions, ask, if you have concerns about a certain clothing item, probably best not to wear it. If you are worried about how good you look in clothes, maybe you should worry more about how you look without them. Because, let’s be honest, isn’t that the whole reason we flock to these places in the first place. For Health? Sure. For Good Naked? Absolutely.
But I am not worried. Because in a few weeks most of my concerns will be weeded out as the gym begins to die down from the shortcomings of the New Year Rezo’s.
So for all you newbies, pirates, hotties, mothers, dudes, hip-hop artists, and old men, I hope your gym experience doesn’t get as complex and sometimes as irritating as mine. Then again, I am an experienced pro.
