He parked his car as near as he could to the gym; his weekly Thursday exercise, based on the premise "If it still works, use it." That may sound a tad disparaging, but at eighty two, it sometimes seemed as if it was a miracle he was still breathing.
The entrance system was akin that of a space station scenario. One keyed in a numbered allocated code and a capsule slid open, into which one stepped. The number was easy to remember, as it was the date of birth, followed by 69. Nothing like a soixante neuf to revive past sexual connotations.
Entering the establishment was like a white haired and bearded Moses parting the Red Sea and leading forth the Tribes of Israel.
Row upon row of machines designed to pump your pecs, firm your glutes and discover muscles you never thought you had.
The attendees comprised a smorsbord of aspirants: muscle bound males in skimpy vests, nubile young maidens in the tightest designer leotards, exposing maximum flesh along with the obligatory tattoos. "Gym Bunnies" is apparently the term used. Then of course there are the middle aged with guts, endeavouring to reverse the clock. I was, I must unashamedly confess the only real " Goldern Oldie.
Music of an indeterminate nature filled the air, composed mainly of a constant percussion that fed in nicely with the grunts of exertion and seemed to say " One more rep."
One strange aspect was the large percentage seated at the various machines, immobilised on their phones. Others more adventurous were using tripods and extension sticks to film themselves for posterity.
I did my two hours: cardio, stretching, machines, weights and inverted treadmill; re-entered the exit capsule, collapsed into my car and returned home for a large Appleton rum and coke, my duty for the week accomplished. Tomorrow I will ache !!!!
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