It’s a uniquely British phenomenon, to see the same people every day, at the same place, and often the same time and extend little more than a cursory nod or shy smile in their direction. And on the occasion where common courtesy becomes burdensome, we plain ignore their existence. In the case of the gym this behaviour is entirely acceptable and evolved as a wilful attempt to avoid the vacuous non descript stream of consciousness that many a Lewisham gym member has the audacity to call conversation. To avoid the arduous, rigmarole about the weather (it’s always bad), work out regimes (protein shakes or starvation?), and how best to train without sweating out ones weave (do-rags, headscarves and shower caps appear to be a popular choice), I opt for silence.
I’m the quiet, non offensive observer, taking in all I see and hear without committing myself to discourse. My friend Yinka would have you believe I’m a spy, storing up information on my ‘poor’ unsuspecting victims. It’s nothing quite as Machiavellian; I’m simply a story teller, revelling in the opportunity to tell the tales that are so desperate to be told.
Some of my favourite characters……
Don Juan
Drop top car, some cheesy r’n’b pounding from the stereo, we wave knowing it is Don Juan arriving at the gym.
Curly, looking like it’s been permed hair with so much (soul glow) product, Sue Sylvester would implode with Glee and forgive Mr Shue his minor indiscretions in the hair department. Don Juan, as I came to know him, is quite the man about town, with his man bag and jerry curl hair, coupled with muscles of steel and a winning smile he’s certainly a ladies man, and I see why many a blond bombshell would quake in his wake. One occasion shattered my illusions, as we discussed literature, music and the parties he’d been to of late. Firstly I was disappointed that he had never heard of let alone read ‘Things fall apart’ (being half Nigerian himself), nor would he consider the importance of African literature, compared to the discerning titles of Men’s Health, Nuts, Zoo and alike. He described, what I later realised was Gold Coast the Ghanaian bar/restaurant, in Brixton as the venue his friends had recently dragged him to where they played bongo bongo music which he demonstrated with some spasmic movements I believe was a parody of traditional African dance. Muscles and a pretty smile, but Don Juan leaves a lot to be desired…
Del-boy
‘One more… Lift, lift, LIFT!’ he bellows furiously as he chastises one of his ‘boyz’. His torn t-shirt strewn surreptitiously around his bulging arms (revealing not quite muscle, not quite fat), his man boobs sneaking a little peep at the world from time to time. Amir (the Arabic Del boy) is the quintessential King of our gym. The King is the strong, buff, muscular, weights expert, able to lift twice his own body weight so spectacularly that the other goons gather round and watch in stunned appreciation. The King lifts dumbbells as heavy as a house – after which he slams them to the ground (instead of discreetly and quietly placing them down) with such might, it sends reverberations to the core of my soul (and literally has me bouncing off the floor as I attempt some sit ups). The King is the man that shouts loudly for all to hear ‘come on my son, you can do it’ as he wills his small, puny training partner to lift more weight (veins protruding from his neck as the weight nearly tears him apart) and like poodles they trail behind him in awe of his manhood (which I have no doubt is very small).
The King isn’t all bad. His appreciation of the human body is genuine, so when he complimented my arms the other day as I stretched, I knew it was genuine. My arms, the part of my body I hate the most. Large and cumbersome they are disproportionate to the rest of my body - When I looked at him stunned he said, “why do you ladies all want to look like you’re starving? You’re toned, nothing wobbles and your arms are sculpted what more do you want?” Ladies there is a lesson in this for us all. Skinny isn’t always best. Nobody but us is obsessed with looking like the girls in the magazines. Not even the king of the castle!
Perfection personified
Imagine a beautify so unfathomable you can’t believe it to ever be real. Well it is and it’s on the treadmill every time you go to the gym (having just about dragged your sorry and rather large behind in after a gruelling day at work, imagine being faced with perfection?), running effortlessly at a pace you hoped only sub human athletes (high on dope) ran at. Enviously you sneak a peak at the timer on the running machine, hoping she’d been running at such a pace for a minute or two, but oh no, you see she’s done 10k in a staggering 35 minutes and has probably been running that fast since puberty. Her relaxed hair, meticulously curled (never wrapped, just free to bounce in the wind – like a Vidal Sassoon advert), has not even a strand out of place and where sweat ought to be running down her face, her precision perfect (definitely not Sleek) make up glows flawlessly, radiating the perfection of her soul. Compared to the women who refuse to exert any real energy for fear of their hair becoming embroiled in sweat, this light skinned (ethnically ambiguous) beauty runs as though she’s possessed followed by so many chin ups, even the men, take a brief moment away from the mirror, to watch in awe. She sports a lycra two piece, sculpting her pert butt, thin legs and revealing her six pack. Me on the other hand (and most of the women I know) wear a t-shirt with shabby jogging suit bottoms a size too big to accommodate for the ‘guddush’ ‘guddush’ movement of my arse defying the laws of gravity every time I run.
We’re friends now; this perfect person and me…And I’ve found out that not only is she beautiful, but smart and funny (so we laugh at the men together). Her hair is natural now and the spiral corks even when running seem to bounce to a rhythm of their own. Free from chemicals her hair is even more astounding. It seems natural hair and the gym are NOT incompatible.
Mr T
On the rare occasion that Yinka graces the Lewisham gym we usually train together so we can spend the time laughing instead of working. On such an occasion, one of the regular gym patrons took quite a shine to her. Together we were contented, lifting dumbbells and squatting our behinds lower than any Ludicrous song would entice us to go, when a rather large, stout figure of a man who look like he popped steroids like popcorn (the no neck, bulging chest type) took it upon himself to assist Yinka with her weights (I was left to lull over our mistake alone). Tattoos covering every orifice, a plethora of gold chains around his neck, a backwards red Chicago Bulls baseball cap reminiscent of a 1990s Wesley Snipes (not fashionable then and certainly not now) and to top it off, a mass of gold teeth he revealed frightfully in what can only be presumed was a smile; Yinka’s new ‘self imposed’ personal trainer was a sight to behold. Arm in arm he led her away, as she looked back with frightful glances, in to the abyss that was the male weights area for a lesson in pumping and lifting technique. Petrified as she was when she returned she hastily fled to the changing room abandoning our cool down, for fear that any stretching would be misinterpreted as sexual provocation by her new ‘friend’.
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