The man with The World’s Biggest Arms is due to make an appearance at my gym this evening. I know this because flyers are set up on a table fronting his photo. He is seated, arms placed in front of his chest, hands clasped. His head looks like a dark boil sprouting from a giant pile of Play Dough. He appears to be attempting to smile.
I joined this gym several months ago, hoping to strengthen the muscles around my surgically repaired knee. I was supposed to get a free tour from an employee showing me how to use each machine. That never materialized and I was too embarrassed to ask anyone how they worked.
I was left to read the instructions and look at the illustrations on each. While everyone around me is pumping and pedaling away, I’m reading, attempting to perform the movement without dislocating vital body parts. Since this is my first gym, I had to learn decorum, all the unwritten rules: Don’t look at anyone else exercising unless you know them. Don’t look at anyone in the locker room unless you know him. Don’t look at anyone in the shower even if you know him. If someone leaves a water bottle, cell phone, dirty sock or kitchen appliance on or near an apparatus it means they’re still using it even if they are on the other side of the place kibitzing with a friend.
Mirrors are ever present – stare at them at your own risk. I, myself, have fallen into despair 10 minutes into my workout when I accidentally caught a glimpse of my body in the process of doing leg curls. I looked like a sixteenth century torture victim.
Admittedly, I draw courage from seeing pudgy types enter, guys skinnier than me, people as old as me. If they can do it, I can do it.
Except they can’t do it. It’s scary watching these muscle-challenged imposters try to complete an actual repetition, pedal a bike, manipulate arm apparatus while striding forth on the sadistic elliptical machine. These people belong in aerobics class where they can hide in the back. They should never carry water bottles, towels, wear sweat bands or grunt. Their target heart rate is about 14.
Okay, maybe I don’t actually draw courage from these pop tarts. They do stimulate me to drive myself to get bigger, more cut, redder in the face. That’s what all the heavy hitters in my gym have in common: red and purple faces as they yank, squeeze, pull, push, lift and swivel impossible weights. In between sets they wander, strut, stare down people like me. I look straight down at my belly between sets, wondering what the heck I’m paying $59 a month for, except humiliation.
At the healthy foods area where the “Big Arms guy” is due to appear, monsters gather. All the seats are taken, many by comely young women. I have finished my workout, am stretching near the entrance when I happen to look up and meet the eyes of Satan’s Enforcer, a squat guy as wide as he is tall. He is grimacing as he yanks outward using pulley cables as though he were single-handedly cranking a pickup truck out of a mud hole. He looks like he wants to kill me right there. He might be “Big Arms” or someone with dreams of such, but I’m not about to stick around and find out.
I’m almost trampled at the door by several more behemoths rushing in to meet the mountain with the tiny boil head. I don’t care. I’ve worked up a sweat, certainly enough of a burn to create muscular prose like this. Hey, it could be worse. I could be into jump roping. – Joe Del Priore
Joe Del Priore is a frequent contributor. Comments on this piece can be sent to: current@hudsonreporter.com. Send us your essays too!