Ten oh five on a Saturday morning, and it looks like Dave isn’t going to show up. I’m standing in a parking lot with three other guys. A Crossfit gym, a “box” somewhere in Seattle. At least it’s trying to be a nice day. The rain is down to just a few drops and the sun occasional peeks from behind bored gray clouds.
We’re all pacing, geared up and ready to get in there and wreck our bodies. Me, I ran here from my house, just a mile or so away. On one of my first days at the gym, Dave said “we don’t do the same workout twice. That’s the problem with runners—always doing the same thing, over and over again, their bodies adapt.” I wish. I’d love to adapt enough to survive the half marathon I signed up for next month.
One of the guys says, “Had to wake him, last week. I showed up at nine, had to bang on the door.”
I furrow my brow. “Wait, does Dave live here?”
The guy nods, and the other two guys look up, paying attention. “Yeah. He moved out of his old place a few months ago.”
I think about why I’m here. I’m getting old, getting fat, need a shock to my system. The good life has made me comfortable, I could say, if I was given to that sort of musing. Maybe I should live in a gym too. Nothing to do all day but pick up heavy weights, cleaning up after every class. Arms like a gorilla. Calves like tree trunks.
One guy checks his watch a few times. I’m tempted to go up to the door, cup my hands against the glare and peer in. What am I going to see? A guy in sleeping bag, laid out next to a pile of dumb bells, his dog curled up at his feet?
Another guy says, “I saw him after the last class, yesterday. He was heading to a bar with my roommate.”
We all chuckle. As if that explains everything. I can’t imagine what a 6 foot, 250 pound guy with 5% body fat has to drink to get too drunk to be up by ten in the morning. He’s not paying for drinks with the money I’ve given him—I used a Groupon.
Ten past ten. Our pacing has slowed a little bit. By now we would have been through our warm-ups. Dave would have given the Crossfit vets their Workout-of-the-Day, and they’d be doing some preliminary exercises. Us newbies would be picking up an empty barbell and putting it back down again. Concentrating on form. Dave would be adjusting his glasses, telling his dog she’s a good girl for staying out of the way. I’d be thinking about that stupid half marathon, and how losing ten pounds would sure help a lot.
A car drives by the parking lot entrance, and we all turn to look. And then I realize I’m sort of hoping he doesn’t show. I want to work out, I want to feel the burn, I want to be a little bit proud of myself. I also want to, well, not.
“God damn it,” the guy, the one who said he’d woken Dave up last week, mutters to humself. Then he smiles “Well, I guess I can always come back at noon.” He turns and wanders towards his car.
The other guy, the one with the roommate says, “Alright fellas.” He looks at his watch, smiles, shakes his head, and walks off too.
Me and the only other one remaining stand there for a few seconds. A moral victory. When Dave’s timing us on burpees and Russian kettle-bells, he never shouts. His voice is loud above the heavy metal blasting from the speakers, but he’s not screaming. You got this, he says. 15 more seconds, he says. You can do this, reach in. Last Thursday, when he did that, even though I was whipped, I managed a few more reps. Felt it all day Friday, but it felt good too.
I want to wait this out, but I don’t. I want to be here when he shows up, forgive him for being, despite a 400 pound bench press, only human. But I want to go home, have a Saturday, do nothing. My wife’s working, won’t be home until 5, so I mean: really do nothing.
I take a deep breath, look the other fella in the eye. “Monday, I guess.” He just smiles, nods, turns and walks to his car.
I decide to compromise. I ran here, so I’ll run back home too. I’m hoping Dave doesn’t have a hang over. But just in case, I’ll commiserate. I stop at the 7-11 on my way, grab a bag of onion potato chips and two Cokes. I plop in front of the TV, and before too long I’m sugar-and-grease queasy. A different kind of work out