So I started going to the gym a few months ago, and four mornings a week you will find me dragging out the process of drinking tea and doing emails in the kitchen before eventually dragging myself out of the house, like some unwilling child to school, in the direction of a place where you can stave off the depredations of age. Yes, I know this doesn’t seem like the kind of thing I’d do. It’s not. But I’m a writer and so spend all day sitting on my ass, and there comes a point, so.

I’m not aiming for the “Ripped Dad” aspirational ideal that Facebook ads keep shoving in my face (actually “Ripped Grandad” is what they put in front of me most of the time, but fuck them and their algorithms). I’m just hoping for something along the lines of “Not Yet Deceased”.

My gym isn’t one of those scary testosterone dens populated by hulking “be the best you can be” addicts of all genders shouting “Go on Gary, one more!” It’s far more chill (or I wouldn’t be there, obviously). It’s open 24/7 and you let yourself in with a key-fob. There’s a staff member during office hours but their function seems mainly to just be affable at you. Allegedly there’s personal trainers available but I’ve seldom seen them: maybe my chosen slot (around 8:30am) isn’t when they’re to be found in the wild...

And a wild it is, its own little habitat. Here are some of the common fauna...

The Fit Dads

Lean motherfuckers in their forties and fifties who pound that running machine like they’re trying to escape the hounds of Hell.

Then they get off, sweating hard, and cycle just as furiously. Then they fuck off into the world to be intense at people in the workplace.

Sometimes they’re women.

Serious Guys

Young men. By themselves. Earphones in. No eye contact. Doing very specific arm, back and shoulder exercises. Over and over. And then some chin-ups.

The female equivalent. Does endless leg exercises. Instead.

Athleta Barbie

The young woman who’s in decent shape but whose general demeanor — along with the fact she’s the only person wearing gym clothes that don’t look like they were found in a dumpster — suggests that in her head, she’s on Instagram.

I Could Have Been a Contender

Middle-aged guys who were clearly pretty serious about all this back in the day, but have spent the last twenty years not stinting themselves on food or beer.

They will have large arms, which are often pale and hairy, and spend their entire session doing upper body exercises and perspiring profusely.

The Couples

Pairs of people in their thirties to sixties who are evidently together. They will either stroll languorously about the place chatting intimately while they do a few exercises, or else engage upon separate activities ten feet apart while radiating an aura of implacable mutual hatred.

The Workers

Having observed people who appear to do this (including a woman who overnights in my gym’s parking lot sometimes in her car), I realize what a “life hack” — loathe the term though I do — it is to obtain a cheap gym membership (this one costs me less than $1/day) and use it as a place to change clothes and get a shower and generally start your day, if you are without domicile. It’s shit that people live like that, but what a canny accommodation to circumstance. There should be a charity for it. I’m not joking. There should.

Similarly, there’s a tranche of hardworking people who evidently use the gym to shower between one of three tiring jobs and the next, grabbing some (probably superfluous) exercise as part of the process. In my gym these are all middle-aged Hispanic women, short and robustly built and shockingly fit. They stick to the stepping machines and cross-trainers, and seriously, some of them are there when I arrive, and still plugging away on the same machine when I leave an hour later. Just watching them makes me feel exhausted, and I’m not doing their three jobs.

The Slackers

People in their thirties who wander vaguely from one machine to another, doing a bit, kinda, then wandering on... apparently rather unsure of what they’re doing, or why. In between they might watch one of the silent televisions for a while.

Then eventually, not having come close to generating a sweat, they wander out of the doors and back into the big wide world. The seasons change. The species evolves. Eventually, a black hole swallows everything.

The Guy Who Does Calisthenics

It’s what he does. It’s annoying.

Mom’s Gone To The Gym

Nice ladies in their thirties and forties who come in and do gentle stretching exercises and low-key things with bands and yoga mats. They are the people most likely to be attended by a trainer, who will largely just chat to them. I do not for one moment question these women’s commitment (I’m no-one to talk, my own commitment is deeply questionable) but there is sometimes a sense that this is the one way they’ve found of legitimating a brief period away from home, and from having their husband and children demanding things of them all the goddamned time.

Gym Lice

You may be familiar with the term “Gate lice”, coined for those people who swarm like zombies around the gate in airports — usually with a clearly excessive amount of “hand luggage” — even though the flight won’t be called for 40 minutes and they’re in Group 7 or something.

Well, there’s gym lice, too. They’re the ones who hog machines or benches by installing themselves there to “exercise” while in fact spending about 90% of the time scrolling on their phone. Even lazy bastards like me hate gym lice. Don’t be them.

The Writer

Who wanders slyly through all the groups, part of none, covertly observing, before sneaking home to write something snide about perfectly reasonable people.

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