The GeekHiker

I don’t think that there’s anything I do, on a regular basis at least, that is so dichotomous (yes, I’m going there again for humor’s sake) for me as going to the gym.

I started going to the gym (very painfully) about the time that I started this here blog.  I wrote about it regularly for a while, then stopped writing about it as it became just another part of my daily/weekly routine.  Currently I head to the gym 3-4 times a week, doing a mix of cardio and weights, usually for about an hour or so.

And it makes me feel good.  And crappy.  Usually at the same time.

Fun, no?

Why, you ask?  Oh, I’m so very glad you did.

See, on the one hand, going to the gym feels good.  Great, even.  Sometimes.  Maybe even most of the time.  Sorta like 57% of the time.

I mean, you know, yeah, since I started I’ve gained a bit of muscle mass, notably in my upper body, which is a good thing.  My upper body, you see, has always been much scrawnier than my torso.  Being a fan of doing things like hiking and biking tends to do that.

(And as a side note, can I just say?  My legs look DAMN good.  I mean, well, as good as a hairy pair of guy’s legs can I suppose.  But, no, really.  Their not like body builders legs or nothing, but all those years of hiking have left them looking f-i-n-e fine. 😉 )

So, okay, yeah, I don’t have a six pack.  Not huge gut sitting on top, but just a little one there, the kind that shows up when I sit down.  Which I suppose most everyone has to some degree.  Okay, maybe I’m the only one who notices it.  Maybe I’m just so narcissistic that I notice it, okay?  I mean, it’s there, okay?  Back off man!

*ahem*

I dunno, perhaps the amount of exercise I do is juuust enough to keep it from growing to beer-gut level, even if it’s not enough to get rid of it altogether.  Probably wouldn’t hurt if I cut down my daily calorie count to, I dunno, wren-size or something.

But, dammit, I like the occasional BBQ.

Okay, but nevermind all that.  Point is: the gym?  Generally a good experience.

Thing is, it’s just not so much while I’m there.

Why?  Because there are other people there.

And not just your average other people.  Oh, no, my friends.  Not even your normal, maybe-slightly-overweight other people.  And certainly not your average-American overweight folks.  No, those folks stay comfortably and safely over on the cardio side of the gym.  Never do they cross over to the weights side.

Yeah, they come in, settle down on an exercise bike for an hour or so, and read the ‘friggin newspaper.  Then they take their sweat-stained bodies and head for the locker room to shower.

Of course, because the Universe is never lacking in a sense of humor (or humour, for my Canadian readers), they are naturally the exact same group that has no issues whatsoever with walking round the locker room buck naked.  In their minds, I think the equation is this: “I’ve worked at the gym, and despite the fact that I’m about to leave here to get the Six-Dollar-Burger combo meal, because I’ve worked out at the gym, I must be buff.”

Ergo, in their minds, they are a sight to behold.  Ergo, they must display themselves, like proud peacocks, for all their glory for the world to see.

Ergo, they must walk around naked.  Pasty flesh, hairy backs, it’s all on display like mannequins in the front window of the “Oh, The Horror” Department Store.

The best part (or worst part, depending on how you humorously (humourously) want to define these things) is when they bend over to pick up things off the floor, displaying for all the world to see the awe-inspiring sight that is the American six-acre hairy ass.

Well, maybe not all the world, but just me, as they often they do this right in front of my face as I’m lacing up my shoes.  I have few talents, but randomly picking the locker that just happens to be next to the one selected by the pasty naked guy who will walk in five minutes later?  Yeah, that’s one of them.

God Bless America and our wide open, hairy, pasty spaces.

Other than the locker room or when I’m on the cardio equipment, though, I don’t see them much.  Why it has to be at the most inopportune times is anyone’s guess…but I digress.

Instead, I’m over the on the weights side (where one lifts weight instead of reading the paper), surrounded by guys like Handsome McStudly.

Who is Handsome McStudly?

He’s the guy who’s been pumping iron since he was oh, I dunno, five.  He’s the guy with body fat numbers in the single digits.  With broad shoulders, bulging biceps, and abs on which you could grate cheese your tacos.

And perfect hair.  Seriously, if there’s one thing guys like Beefy McSixPack have, it’s perfectly coiffed hair.  They work out for an hour, barely crack a sweat, and have perfect fucking hair, with nary a strand out of place.

(I’ll pause here for a moment to allow my female readers to swoon over the image that just popped into their heads.  Okay, good now?  Let’s move on.)

Yes, Chuck GiantPecs does a set, stands up, flexes a bicep in the mirror, admires it for a moment, then heads back to do another set.  That’s just the kind of guy he is.

Annoyingly, I don’t think he’s posing.  I think he actually IS checking his form in the mirror.  After all, when you’re that good looking, who really needs to pose?  These are real work-out guys who take their real work out really seriously.  They’re in it to improve themselves, not just to be silly posers.

Sadly, I can’t even criticize them for being just gym rats, because they aren’t.  How do I know?  Because my gym is located in an area which happens to be frequented by accountants and lawyers and business-types.  I know because I’ve heard them talking, and seen them when they come into the locker room still wearing their suits and ties and perfectly-creased pants.  They’re definitely so-called “professionals.”  Who just happen to also be very in shape, very good looking, and have perfectly manicured hair.

In short, they’re placed here on this earth to make average-Joes like me feel like average-Joe’s-crap.

And us average-Joes are reminded of this by working out in a room with more mirrors than a carnival fun house.  Oh, yeah, sure, these mirrors are supposedly “non-distorting,” but I don’t really believe it.

As far as I can tell, these mirrors are there for two purposes: so that the Adonises in the room can admire the results of their efforts (and keep in mind, I don’t deny that they put in effort (though I do think they have a special “food-to-muscle” gene the rest of us are lacking)), and so the rest of us normal folk can feel like we just aren’t working hard enough.  Ever.

In fact, I can stand in front of the mirror at home and not feel too bad.  Nah, I’m not sculpted or anything, but I’m not huge.  Not even those so-called “love handle” things, unless one pokes, prods and pulls a little.

On the flip side, though, working out on the lat pull-down machine at the gym I look in the mirror, with a sculpted Adonis working out behind me (and there’s always a sculpted Adonis working out behind me), and I see more flubber than a bad Robin Williams remake.

In the spirit of total honesty, I’ll even admit to this: there’s been a couple of days, days where the gym has been really busy, days where the gym is just crawling in Adonis’ admiring their sweatless sculpted muscles in the mirrors that… I’ve actually bailed.  Yep, that’s right, gone home early because I couldn’t take feeling like I was the fat guy on the floor.  Even though I’m not.  Even though I know I’m not.

It’s enough to want to pay someone who’s really overweight (you know, one of the headless, faceless people walking around that they show on the nightly news when they have a story about how overweight Americans are) to come work out on the weight floor with me, just to make me look gooooood.

Oh, well, at least I have one saving grace.

Most of the weight guys concentrate on their upper body, leaving legs that don’t quite balance their broad muscle-bound shoulders.

But I’ve got these hiker legs.

Go me.