Open Writing

Putting in the extra effort required to achieve my goal of burning off fifty calories in ten minutes, my legs pumped hard on the step machine. I pushed the upward arrow increasing the resistance. Sweat dripped off my chin.

To take my mind off my heaving chest and protesting thighs, I looked around. Behind me and to my right was the weight-lifting section. Every day since joining the gym, the same group of muscle-bound men grunted, sweated and cracked silly jokes at the tops of their voices in this area. Frequently, they over-estimated their strength, and shouts of laughter rang out as weights thumped and clattered, shaking the concrete floor.

The gym had four treadmills. To my right, separated from me by three rowing machines was a treadmill which was rather complicated to operate. People avoided using it regularly. To my left, was a treadmill which did not offer the option of walking at elevation. It was empty, hardly ever used. Beyond it were two ‘back-rest’ exercise bikes, then another treadmill, occupied by a furiously-focussed, rather over-weight young woman pacing fast and sweating profusely. Beyond her, at the end of a long line of upright cycles, was yet another treadmill which did not give a running count of calories burnt during exercise, but otherwise worked well. It was occupied by a Chinese man with his knee in a brace. His arms pumped and perspiration streamed from every pore.

Behind the line of bikes and treadmills, a man sat on the black faux-leather seat of one of the weight machines, reading a magazine. He was waiting for the nearer of the occupied treadmills, the one that provided both elevation and a continuous readout of calories. He would wait as long as necessary until ‘his’ treadmill was vacated. I chuckled inwardly. This man never did alternate exercise while waiting, neither did he use any other treadmill. He would either walk on ‘his’ machine, or wait. Rowing and cycling were not for him. His shape never changed from being slightly square all over.

On cue, Mrs Dark-Hair arrived at ten to seven. She was beautifully made-up, dressed in black, with a red sweat towel slung casually over her shoulders. About sixty, she, too, preferred to walk.

At that moment my ten minutes’ of torture on the step-machine ended. The readout told me I’d achieved my goal of fifty calories. Excellent. Next, to get to a decent treadmill. Anxiously, I looked around. The ‘square’ man dropped his magazine as the young woman stepped off ‘his’ treadmill. He leapt up and staked his claim, beginning to walk immediately. At the end of the line of machines, the Chinese man stepped down and Mrs D rushed up the stairs to claim it as her own.

To my relief, a day or two ago I’d worked out how to set the other, complicated, treadmill to give myself a breath-puffing, uphill-climb. Pausing only for a few gulps from the water-dispenser, I hurried past the rowing machines and began the important, twenty-five minutes of shape-changing, weight-losing walking.

In the pool below, a gentleman in swimming costume, cap and goggles climbed down the blue plastic ladder into the water, ducked into the far lane, and began swimming endless lengths of crawl, feet kicking metronomically.

My T-shirt and clinging gym-pants became soaked with sweat as I puffed my way up increasingly steep, imaginary hills. Splash-splash, splash-splash, rose rhythmically from the pool as I walked in a trance, eyes fixed on the red LED readouts of distance, pace, increasing elevation and calories used. Beyond the rowing machines, Mr Square walked doggedly on, seeming never to push himself hard enough to break into a sweat. At the far end of the line of machines, Mrs D strode, dripping, arms swinging high above the console of her chosen treadmill. How did her make up stay on while she seemed to melt like that? Behind me, the men ceased all weight-lifting activity, finding inane conversation and loud laughter far more enjoyable.

When my twenty-five minutes were over, I moved to the weight-machines. After another fifteen minutes in their demanding company, I heaved a sigh of relief, went into the change-rooms, put on my bathing costume and padded, bare-foot, to the pool. Two lanes away from the metronomic crawl-swimmer I did ten gentle lengths of breast-stroke, then returned to the change-rooms. I showered in the same cubicle I used every day, went through my daily routine of ‘beauty therapy’, then climbed, exhausted up the stairs and out into the morning. Another day had begun.

In the first two hours of any morning, I operate on automatic pilot, a creature of habit. So, judging by my companions at the gym, do many other people. In any office, workers gravitate to the coffee machine at the same time each morning and afternoon. They use the same cup or mug each time, becoming upset if a newcomer innocently takes what they consider to be theirs. They park their car in the same parking slot each day, even if parking is not reserved. On a bus they sit in the same position for each trip.

Is there a feeling of safety in doing so many of life’s daily activities by rote? Does habit, perhaps, free our minds from focussing on the mundane to deal with more important things, such as planning our day, worrying about a relationship, writing a poem or making music? Is it perhaps a carry-over from the days of the hunter-gatherer, where the mind needed to focus on survival and the basics of the body were dealt with by instinct? Whatever the reason, most of us are, in many ways, creatures of habit.

Until next time, ‘here comes Treble!’

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by Isabel Bradley