The Gym

31 Jan

A few months back I decided that my New Year’s Resolution for 2013 would be a hideously clichéd one: that I would, as the Internet likes to say, “hit” the gym.

Not to lose weight, of course. If you’ve seen me in real life, you’ll know I vaguely resemble a dressed broom handle; an elongated stick with a Biffy Clyro t-shirt hanging off it. After attempts at simple self-fattening failed, the plan to look a little more proportionate switched to a muscle mass-based strategy – hence, gym.

cardiff-graffiti1

My gym has a dragon on the wall. Does yours?

For a pasty nerd, I quite like it. There are simply too many machines and contraptions for monotony to become a problem, and the fact that many include on-screen counters for distance travelled, time taken etc. appeals to my videogame-honed appetite for beating high scores. A good motivational tactic, I’ve discovered, is to quietly include other people in my absurd exercise contest; if a fellow lifter-of-metal-things hops on a neighbouring machine to mine, I generally won’t stop and leave before they do. That way, not only do I get ripped (probably), but I can feel briefly superior to a complete stranger, which is basically one of the same gratifications I derive from most online games.

It’s petty and childish, I’ll admit, but when you’re the single bespectacled ectomorph in a room full of people with oak trunks for arms, you take what little victories you can get.

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