It’s 4:23 p.m. on a dull Thursday afternoon and I’m staring at an untouched problem set due in less than 24 hours. Meandering into the common room, I contemplate turning on ESPN, the typical immediate remedy to my procrastination, but today I can’t afford to waste away on the couch.
There’s only one solution: it’s time to get my swell on.
The bike ride to the Tresidder Fitness Center elapses like the minutes before midnight on New Year’s Eve, and unachievable workout goals are made like ludicrous New Year’s Resolutions.
As I make my grand entrance into the workout facility, I swipe my card, give a little “what up” head nod to the cute girl at the front desk and put down my red bookstore bag in a Kindergarten-like cubby. Gathering my iPod and water bottle, I go through a quick, preliminary scouting of the gym.
The small cardio section is halfway full, occupied by two Kappas on the elliptical machines, a 60-something-year-old professor on a treadmill and two freshmen in “Stanford Beirut” shirts talking about the upcoming weekend’s ragers while biking next to each other.
“It’s gonna be fucking sick!” one says to the other.
He’s the man.
As I walk over to the stationary bicycles on the opposite side of the gym, I recall one of my aforementioned lofty goals: a solid cardio workout for 30 minutes.
Did I say 30? Let’s aim for 10.
After giving a half-assed effort on the bike while listening to Kid Cudi, I decide that it’s go time and head over to the free weight section.
Two fairly thin Asian pals are spotting each other on the bench, both attempting what appears to be an impossible rep of 150 pounds.
“Come on man, you got this,” the taller of the two says to his friend. As he helps his friend unrack the bar, I watch in disbelief as the lifter’s face turns a shade of red that belittles the “Asian glow.” He struggles with the bar on his chest and, with obvious assistance from his spotter, re-racks the weights with a tremendous exhale.
“Damn, I was so close!”
No. No, you weren’t.
I regain focus after unknowingly staring at these two for about five minutes and decide to get involved in a little dumbbell press action. I pick up 45-pound weights for a warm-up set, when, out of nowhere, one of the giant regulars comes and starts curling the 50s.
So, that’s how it’s going to be?
With a quick and awkward exchange of subtle snarls in the mirror, the game of dumbbell chicken is on. I do a quick set and go for the 55s. He immediately grabs the 60s.
Come on, bro; throw me a goddamn bone.
I can still lift the 55s, but I know that I am headed for trouble. Grabbing for the 65s, I see that he goes for the 70s. I struggle through a small set and pick up the 75s, praying for surrender. He glances at the weight in my hands, gives a bull-like huff and walks with a little swag over to the rowing machine.
Can I comfortably chest press 150 pounds? You bet your sweet ass I can’t. Did I win? Absolutely.
As I move onto a new exercise, I spot two more frequenters. As I discreetly turn down the volume of my music, I hear them discuss, what else? Lifting weights.
“I maxed 300 the other day,” one says. “I’m pumped.”
This means one of two things: He’s either really excited to have accomplished a significant workout milestone, or he’s geeked up after snorting a line of creatine. My money is on the second, as the veins in his right forearm are bigger than my biceps.
As I chuckle to myself about the douchiness of many of the gym rats, I get caught in a swarm of hypocrisy. After a set of triceps pushdowns, I catch myself flexing to the beat of Alice Deejay’s techno anthem, “Better Off Alone.”
Shit, I am such a tool.
After pumping a little more iron and undergoing several more moments of awkward mirror eye contact, I decide that my work here is done. I gather my things and give yet another head nod — if only my game with the ladies were as strong as my dumbbell chicken skills.
As I’m exiting the gym, I overhear a conversation between the Asian pair.
“I just wanna get big.”
Don’t we all?