When you think about it, paying money to run in place on a treadmill, when you could just as easily run outside and actually GO somewhere, is weird. Paying someone to allow you to lift weights, when a great many employers will pay YOU to lift heavy objects, equally weird. So, in principle, gyms are pretty odd institutions. That said, our gym in Johannesburg has its own particular flavor of weird.
At the Planet Fitness in Craighall Park, which we frequent 2-3 times a week, there are two camps—the Big Guys, and the wannabe Big Guys. Unless you’re a woman, in which case the goal seems to be the ability to disappear when you turn sideways. Or to hang around the popular equipment in packs, gossiping incessantly, thereby rendering everyone else’s attempt at personal fitness as futile as your own.
The Boy Guy group contains several sub-categories. There are there rugby okes, with their punk mullets and teeny shorts to show off waxed thighs thick as Virginia hams. Then there’s the Body Builders Guild and the Trainers. The only major difference between the two is that the Trainers are usually talking to Guild members when they should be paying attention to their client—usually some poor middle aged wifey whose arm is about to part from its socket.
The tie that binds these fellas, apart from the fact that their necks are as big around as my thigh, is their universal disdain for anyone who can’t bench press a Cape Buffalo ten times. Everyone else is a waste of valuable gym resources. I may have wiggled my way into acceptance, however, as one of them asked me for a spot last week, which I took as a great honor.
I make an exception for one trainer/body builder, our boy Wazi Zulu. In addition to having the coolest name ever, a shirtless Waz is enough to elicit shouts of, “Dear God, what muscle is THAT?” Marnie took some sessions from the Waz, whose favorite motivational technique was to call her “lazy”. He’s good for a laugh and flirts with the ladies, but instantly goes deadly serious when using his favorite word--train. As in, “You must train with me. Must train hard. Training make you big and strong.”
So that leaves the rest of us, the wannabes. When you think about it, it’s remarkable more of us don’t die in there, given the vast majority have absolutely no idea what they’re doing. Take the new money black guys. Growing up in townships under apartheid, I’m guessing there wasn’t gym equipment available on every street corner. And if you haven’t grown up using them, some of these machines can be a little intimidating, as evidenced by the guy doing triceps extensions who looks like he's trying to milk a cow whilst hopping up and down .
The more worrisome group is the elders. Some of the older boys have a hard time letting go, lifting weights so heavy I cringe waiting for something to snap. Two guys in particular come to mind. One is a Charlton Heston dead wringer who only has one gym outfit and will sit on a piece of equipment for a half hour doing the same exercise. Hey dude, there’s other machines for that, it’s called cardio.
The other guy is a balding gorilla with a barrel gut who obviously used to be one of the Big Guys. He is the type who likes to grunt loudly and bang weights around so everyone can see how strong he is. When he gets really excited, he starts counting loudly in his thick Afrikaans accent: Wahn! Twooooo! Threy!
Both these guys like to chat up the Big Guys, and I’m afraid one day they’ll pass me on the way out of the gym on a gurney. Hey fellas, if the weight you’re using is enough to lift YOU off the seat, IT’S TOO HEAVY.
I would be amiss in not mentioning the weirdest of the gym dwellers: Bagel Lady. This beanpole woman runs on the treadmill with two bagels in each hand, which is just as baffling as it sounds. Why, Bagel Lady, why? Some things, we are just not meant to know.
At the Planet Fitness in Craighall Park, which we frequent 2-3 times a week, there are two camps—the Big Guys, and the wannabe Big Guys. Unless you’re a woman, in which case the goal seems to be the ability to disappear when you turn sideways. Or to hang around the popular equipment in packs, gossiping incessantly, thereby rendering everyone else’s attempt at personal fitness as futile as your own.
The Boy Guy group contains several sub-categories. There are there rugby okes, with their punk mullets and teeny shorts to show off waxed thighs thick as Virginia hams. Then there’s the Body Builders Guild and the Trainers. The only major difference between the two is that the Trainers are usually talking to Guild members when they should be paying attention to their client—usually some poor middle aged wifey whose arm is about to part from its socket.
The tie that binds these fellas, apart from the fact that their necks are as big around as my thigh, is their universal disdain for anyone who can’t bench press a Cape Buffalo ten times. Everyone else is a waste of valuable gym resources. I may have wiggled my way into acceptance, however, as one of them asked me for a spot last week, which I took as a great honor.
I make an exception for one trainer/body builder, our boy Wazi Zulu. In addition to having the coolest name ever, a shirtless Waz is enough to elicit shouts of, “Dear God, what muscle is THAT?” Marnie took some sessions from the Waz, whose favorite motivational technique was to call her “lazy”. He’s good for a laugh and flirts with the ladies, but instantly goes deadly serious when using his favorite word--train. As in, “You must train with me. Must train hard. Training make you big and strong.”
So that leaves the rest of us, the wannabes. When you think about it, it’s remarkable more of us don’t die in there, given the vast majority have absolutely no idea what they’re doing. Take the new money black guys. Growing up in townships under apartheid, I’m guessing there wasn’t gym equipment available on every street corner. And if you haven’t grown up using them, some of these machines can be a little intimidating, as evidenced by the guy doing triceps extensions who looks like he's trying to milk a cow whilst hopping up and down .
The more worrisome group is the elders. Some of the older boys have a hard time letting go, lifting weights so heavy I cringe waiting for something to snap. Two guys in particular come to mind. One is a Charlton Heston dead wringer who only has one gym outfit and will sit on a piece of equipment for a half hour doing the same exercise. Hey dude, there’s other machines for that, it’s called cardio.
The other guy is a balding gorilla with a barrel gut who obviously used to be one of the Big Guys. He is the type who likes to grunt loudly and bang weights around so everyone can see how strong he is. When he gets really excited, he starts counting loudly in his thick Afrikaans accent: Wahn! Twooooo! Threy!
Both these guys like to chat up the Big Guys, and I’m afraid one day they’ll pass me on the way out of the gym on a gurney. Hey fellas, if the weight you’re using is enough to lift YOU off the seat, IT’S TOO HEAVY.
I would be amiss in not mentioning the weirdest of the gym dwellers: Bagel Lady. This beanpole woman runs on the treadmill with two bagels in each hand, which is just as baffling as it sounds. Why, Bagel Lady, why? Some things, we are just not meant to know.
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