Calamity Jane - The Gym

I am a member of the infamous Fitness First in Lewisham. Regarded as such not for any frivolous reason like celebrity clientele (although I did once spot someone from Eternal – not the sisters, the other one - and as discreetly as I could, made a beeline for my phone to share the news with everyone I knew), but rather for its diabolical customer service. 1990s trashy euro pop music videos on repeat (God forbid they play music that actually appeared in the UK chart), moody staff,  faulty machinery, broken air con machine; dilapidated crumbling walls, changing facilities that smell of rotting animal and a general sub standard service. Its sole reason for continued trade is its proximity to public transport, lack of viable competition, fantastic instructors (there’s nothing like spinning at 7am with Jamie or Errol; garage and grime beats blaring from the speakers and the instructor at the front like a conductor pushing forth his orchestra). The real reason it exists is because it’s located in a poor neighbourhood where people don’t feel empowered enough to write letters of complaint and report them to the Evening Standard.

It’s January and the Christmas gorge (despite the recession people still have money for a feast) guilt has set in. The gym is as packed and it’s a sight to behold.

There’s the girl with the hard face who only smiles when there are men in the vicinity, whose relaxed short crop is so newly permed you can smell the chemical relaxer oozing from her pores as she sensually struts on the cross trainer (often in batty rider shorts - which she clearly customised from a once respectable pair of trousers and a circa 1990 crop top). She once proudly proclaimed that she avoided sweating to save her hair. I would say her inspiration for the gym was less the working out and more working men.

There is the beautiful girl with the funky long weave, who loves her hair as much as life itself. You can tell by her incessant stroking and touching, whipping her head at any given opportunity for the most grandiose effect. With every bounce of that hair, you can see her jubilation and heightened sense of worth. We once talked about going natural (and managing it with all the gym) and she looked me straight in the eye and without even the faintest hint of irony, proclaimed with pride that her hair was indeed natural. She mustn’t have seen her natural hair in excess of fifteen minutes every four weeks for the last ten years. That’s the time in-between weaves where she washes it, quickly covers it up in a baseball cap and runs to the salon hoping nobody will spot her on the bus.

The most interesting sight to behold is the assortment of ostentatious head gear proudly on display. In the Covent Garden Fitness First or indeed the Clapham or Purley gyms, the only head gear you may occasionally view is the sweat band of the ardent runner. In Lewisham, scarves, bandanas, do-rags, tights (flash back to your childhood when your mum made you wear them at night) are all tightly wrapped round women’s heads to contain the beast within. I’ve even witnessed a shower cap (not in the steam room, as one may reasonably assume, but on the treadmill). The woman had conditioned her locks, put on her cap and was pounded the treadmill for the ultimate deep conditioning steam.

For all the humour the women afford it is the men that are the truest of spectacle. In January it was them that attended in their droves, flexing their muscles in a wilful display of alpha masculinity.  Pumping, lifting, grunting - they exert such rigour; it’s a wonder they have any energy for other things in life.... like a job. My initial observation was that the scene that befell me, was to mask some kind of closeted homoeroticism. The touching, the grunting, the intentional rubbing of sweating pulsating bodies, precipitated one reasonable conclusion -  GAY.

As time went on I realised that their show of moronic masculinity was indeed for the benefit of one another (only occasionally did they preen over a woman as intently as they did one another) but there was no homosexual tendency. It was simply a performance, a grand opera, to assert their role as King of the castle. In the most base terms, men always believe they can impress a woman – even the run down, didn’t brush my hair, wearing yesterday’s clothes man will still have the audacity to approach a respectable woman, with nothing intelligent to say other then ‘pssst, pssssssst, sexy giarl, I like your backside. Can I take your number?’.

The end of my workout beckons and I drag myself to the mat area to endure the mandatory five minute waste of time, abs session. Full steam ahead I go. Dropping to the mat and rising again like a deranged jack in the box. Then out of nowhere, one of the goons stands directly behind me, so close my sweat surely must flick onto his legs. He gives the cursory nod to a man nearby (not sure if they even know one another or it’s some kind of unspoken code of conduct), he pays me no mind (indeed it’s as though the mat rather than the person on it is the only thing in view) and with no shame or even the hint of humour, lifts his top up, tenses his abs and gawks at his own reflection. He turns from side to side, getting a good view from every profile and after a full five minutes (which is a long time to stare at yourself in a public forum) he drops his t-shirt, gives himself a self ingratiating smile and saunters off. Displaying not even a glimpse of embarrassment.

Spent from fighting my way on to the machines (which the non sweat brigade used until water penetrated their weaves) and dehydrated from inhaling the pong and fumes (no air con makes for a very smelly room). I trudge home, having experienced quite the psychological workout, to eat cake and sooth my fragile nerves!

Dedicated to my father, who thinks the gym is an unproductive waste of time. And anyone who has time to go on several occasions over the course of a week needs to either get a second job or find something more intellectually changeling to occupy their time. Having watched those peacock men, strut around the gym showing off their feathers, I am inclined to agree with my dad.

CJ