Returning penitents

I’m back in the gym. I put it down to the lighter evenings and the rising sap. It’s been so long since I last worked out that I had forgotten what the gym card in my wallet looked like. ‘Sorry, sir, we don’t take library cards,’ said the woman on the reception desk. ‘Where’ve you been, anyway?’

Looking around the gym I wasn’t the only returning penitent. Bikes, treadmills, steppers, rowers and cross-country ski machines were all occupied and flat out and there were loads of unfamiliar backsides. The combined noise from the treadmills and rowers was deafening.

Someone I hadn’t seen there before was a pal called Dave. Dave is a drug dealer (est. 1999) and a heavy drinker and smoker. He was the last person I expected to see in a place dedicated to improving one’s health. I could only assume that he was dipping his toe in the steroid market. Dressed in loose jog pants, a knitted cardigan and a white lawn bowling cap, he was wandering around in a relaxed and confident manner, whistling. ‘Dave! What are you doing here?’ I said. ‘I’m always here, working out,’ he said, slightly affronted by the question. ‘If you haven’t seen me before it’s because I’m normally downstairs.’

Our council-run gym has two floors. Upstairs for cardiovascular exercise machines, fixed weight machines designed for toning arse and thighs, plus an area of thick blue mats for stretching and general warm-up exercises. Downstairs for body-building with free weights and the fixed weight machines concentrating on the upper body. So the sexes are more or less segregated, except that the men use the water fountain and scales upstairs as an excuse to pop up and show off their expanding physiques to the ladies.