Wouldn't That Hurt?

I was at the gym today, gettin' my sweat on, and I saw a guy running on the treadmill. Nothing out of the ordinary, that's what treadmills are for. There was something wrong, though, and I couldn't quite put my finger on it. He was running... funny. And I do mean ha-ha funny. Comical, in a you-have-to-be-embarrassed-for-him sort of way. So I looked at the other guys beside him, and it hit me. The first guy was running on his toes.
   Normally you go heel-toe, heel-toe when you run. Like when you walk. But this guy had the speed cranked waaaaay up and he was prancing along on his toes like he was an antelope or something, and bobbing up and down like a piston. It was the oddest thing I've seen in that gym in a while.*
   The only thing I could think was 'man, that's gotta hurt...'
   Fast forward to thirty minutes later. I've finished with the cardio portion of my workout and I've moved on to strength and flexibility And who do I see but Prancer from the treadmill. And what was he doing? Groaning and moaning as he tried to stretch out his calves. You'd have thought he was having surgery with no anesthesia the way he was carrying on, wincing in pain and gritting his teeth.
   For a moment I thought I should go over and explain to him what I saw him doing, but then I thought better of it. Not really my business in the first place, and he was making a big show of stretching so he liked the attention that running like a douchebag brought him. And who am I to get in the way of someone else's desperate cry for attention?
   It does make me a little self-conscious, though. Am performing any exercises comically wrong? Am I in a glass house throwing stones here?
   Nah...


* aside from Mr. Grunty Seven-Rep and his torn wardrobe, but I'm used to that annoying bastard now

Why Are All The Fire Trucks Here?

As I left the building this morning to go work out I heard sirens. With the way the sound was echoing down the various streets, I had my suspicions immediately about where they might be headed. When I rounded the corner by the cooking school I saw that my hunch had been correct: the fire trucks - all six of them - were outside the gym.
   I saw civilians leaving the building and fire fighters gathered around the entrance, so using my Batman-like powers of deduction I concluded the fire fighters had ordered the building evacuated. The fact that several of the people exiting told me that exact thing only confirmed my amazing skill at piecing together information. But I know how these things go, and the firemen weren't in any sort of hurry. No hoses, no ladders, no axes, no urgency meant no fire. So I wandered up to the front door to wait for them to re-open the building.
   Here's the scene - six fire trucks in the street with lights flashing, fire fighters in reflective gear outside the door, gym employees outside the door, gym patrons outside the door. You'd think that anyone arriving would be able to figure out the situation immediately. And you'd be wrong.
   I stood there for fifteen minutes and nine people - I counted - came up and tried the door. And they all seemed genuinely surprised when the gym staff told them the place was evacuated and that they couldn't go in. One guy in a business suit said, and I quote him verbatim:
   "Really? Was there a fire?"
   I guess he thought the fire fighters were having a pancake breakfast fund raiser? That the fire truck ten feet away - literally - was for the kids to play on?
   Just when I start having faith in my fellow man again, somebody comes along to knock some sense into me. Are people that clueless, or are they that self-centered that they think fire trucks and evacuations are for other people?
   Yeesh. Some people just don't get it. This is why reality television is still profitable.
   On the plus side, I know now where the lockbox for the firemen's keys is. If you keep your eyes open you notice a lot of stuff.
   And, for complete closure on that anecdote, the fire was caused by a short in a wall plug (I overheard the fire fighters' radio), into which was plugged a vending machine. With an extension cord.

I Can Run Real Fast Now

For Christmas my sister gave me money to buy new sneakers. Mostly to stop my complaining and dropping broad, un-subtle hints about how much I wanted new exercise shoes rather than out of the goodness of her heart. Never underestimate the power of annoying your relatives around Christmastime.
   So once I was back in Pasadena I went to the store and got myself some new kicks. They're bright and shiny white, not dingy and gray like my old pair, and the tread is nubby and raised, not slick and smooth like my old pair, and they look like little spaceships on my feet instead of like Fred Sanford's junkyard truck like my old pair.
   And, just like when I got new sneakers back in elementary school, I can now run fast. Way fast. Super fast. Like I was The Flash or something.
   Seriously. I went to work out wearing my new shoes and I got to the gym before I left the apartment. I got on the treadmill and I went so fast it burst into flames and fell to pieces. When I left for home I ran so fast the wind blew all the protein bars off the shelf. Seriously. It happened. Ask anybody.
   I know when I'm in the gym all the people at the gym are looking at my new shoes, staring with envy, or avarice, or a little bit of both. But you can't have them, they're my new shoes. And I run faster with them on.
   Thanks to my sister for feeding my delusion.

Smooth Operator

A few weeks back I had the opportunity (?) to hear and then record a smoove operator as he tried to pick up a chick. I seized that chance because being witness to ickiness like that doesn't happen every day. Turns out, though, that it does happen every few weeks. At least to me.
    I was in the gym this morning, engaging in my earnest yet futile efforts to lose twenty pounds, when I heard the following conversation in the locker room. Don't worry, it's not graphic, but it is cringe-worthy. The two gentlemen in question were at the sinks, towels wrapped around their waists. Evidently one or both of them was deaf because they were practically yelling at each other even though they were side-by-side.

Dude 1: What kind of razor do you use?
    Dude 2: Gilette, dude. Sensor 3.
What about shaving cream?
   Don't use cream, use gel, it's better. Shaving cream sucks.
What about just soap? That would work right?
   If you use one of those chick soaps, the kind with moisturizer in it. That would work.
Do you go against the grain or with the grain?
    Both, dude. First you go with the grain, then you go against. Extra smooth.
Really? That works?
   Oh yeah. But you gotta be careful around your nipples and your bellybutton.

Yup... they were talking about shaving their chests.
   I almost laughed out loud but I covered it with a cough. Usually the men's locker room is a no-eye-contact zone, but there were about four of us puzzled, amused, and disturbed by this. Seriously, what do you do? Tell them they're talking too loud, and, oh, by the way, if we were in prison you'd be my bitch? Some stuff you just don't talk about in public, and you especially don't yell it out in an echoing men's locker room.
   But at least if I ever decide to 'mow the field' I have notes for technique.

It's True

I've been 'between assignments' for a while now, and I've gotten into a routine that avoids rush hours and high-traffic times. I'm out and about during the between times, when there are fewer people on the roads, in businesses, everywhere. And I've noticed a few things.

   1. Old people really do swerve when they drive. Even though there are far fewer cars on the road during the day, I fear for my life more at 2 PM than I did at 5:30. Lane markers aren't suggestions, grandpa.
   2. If you wear wool slacks and a dress shirt to the grocery store in the middle of the day, the staff assumes you're there to buy a birthday cake or party supplies. Seriously, I get more directions to the bakery department than I ever did in the evening.
   3. There are plenty of post office clerks at 10:30 in the morning. Three people in line, three windows open. And the clerks are friendly. After 3 they go down to two clerks, no matter how many people are in line, and not a smile in sight. 'Splain that one.
   4. Leaf blowers. Are. Everywhere.
   5. Shifty-loking, shady people stick out. Very few full-sleeve tattoos out and about before nightfall. No facial piercings gleaming in the noonday sun.
   6. Those people hanging out in the coffee shop all day, hogging the wireless internet? Your suspicions are confirmed, they really don't have anything better to do. Trust me on this one.
   7. Public works repairs happen during the business day. And they always happen on the street I'm travelling, at exactly the worst time. It's like those guys have a map of places I go and they plot their repairs according to my schedule.

I'll share more as things come up.

No Time For Biceps

Friday morning at 7 AM is the time I usually work out with my trainer, Steve. Normally I sleep in a little, but seeing as how I don't actually go into an office any longer today I had to wake up a little early. Bastards.
    I noticed that there are many more people in the gym these days. Usually there's a spike in attendance around the New Year, people making resolutions they know they won't keep, but I think as the economy tanks more and more, people are taking advantage of the money they've already spent on gym memberships. Good for them, but they're taking up space and getting their sweat on the equipment I use. Bastards.

Gym Etiquette for Guys
Even though I go to the gym regularly I'm no gym rat, but there are a few guys in the gym I need to set straight. I'll start with worst offenders in the locker room, later I'll address those on the gym floor.

In the locker room:
Mr. Spread-Out
there are 100 lockers and four benches, but somehow this guy thinks he can take an entire bench for himself. Shove over, asswipe.
Mr. Walk-Around-Naked
I know it's the locker room, but for God's sake, put on some underwear. And please, please, please don't dry off your johnson under the electric hand dryer.
Senor Speedo
seen only in gyms with pools. This usually-European offender proudly presents his banana hammock, unaware of the cringing around him
Cologne Boy
usually a younger man, sometimes a much older man, this guy thinks smell-good replaces deodorant. If it's enough perfume to set off the smoke alarm, it's too much.
The Foot Powder Jackass
Who uses foot powder any more? Didn't that go out with pomade and spats? Not for this guy, who spreads a liberal helping of it all over the floor, usually right where you
put your stuff.