For a year in the mid-1960's Hunter S. Thompson kept close quarters with the Hells Angels in order to capture the world few dared to know up close. In September 1976 Joseph Dominick Pistone walked out of the FBI for six years, returning in 1981 with enough evidence to take down the Bonanno crime family. In August 2012 I walked into Gold's Gym to trim off an extra chin and shave the gut down a few inches. Hunter, Joseph, and I are linked by a common thread... Our journeys took us into a subculture existing in plain sight of the larger body complete. And changed us all forever.
The gym has a vast array of characters flowing in and out daily with all sorts of motivations for being there. Over time, and with the guidance provided by the Sherpa of Strength, I have been able to identify different species of exercisers, of which most of the common breeds have been documented in this rag.
- The Novice - squeaky clean shoes, fat as a hippo, and aimlessly walking around the gym looking for the magic machine.
- Insanity - "doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."
- Tourist - those who go to the gym because it's the trend of the week. Usually appearing shortly after a gym sells it's soul for the W.O.D. crowd.
- Weekend Warriors - Saturday morning dudes scrambling through every body party and station to make up for lost time like the gym is their teenage bastard child's monthly visit.
The latest group Jaron and I have classified are those fitness freaks who spend more time in the gym than any other place on earth. They are known as "Flying Dutchman's wallpaper." Over time these permanent fixtures in the weight room or on the cardio equipment start to blend into the surroundings like living wallpaper. One would think they would have a common language, or a sly hand gesture like the low flung hand of stranger outlaw bikers passing on the byways. Nope! Narcissism is a lone ranger in a wilderness of lessers. (Cue melodramatic music at will.)
