I didn’t go to the gym yesterday because I was a little under the weather. And I missed the excitement (read: trouble) my mates got themselves into.
Lately, because our mate S is back from Sydney for good, and he’s brought back some good old fashioned Aussie values – such as ‘a good punch never hurt anyone‘ especially when executed in the proper context, such as on the footy paddock, in the pub, outside the pub, inside the gym, outside the gym, hell, most anywhere, we’ve been doing the pub circuit, (watching) rugby, gymming, going shopping for clothes, looking for nice places to eat…. generally what the typical Aussie bloke would do on a weekend in Sydney.
S and H were warming up on the treadmill, trying to run 3km in 10 minutes or something, and S started giggling quite audibly, as is his habit, because the telly in front of him was screening ‘America’s Funniest Home Videos’ or something. The fella (according to H, late 30s, balding, unfit looking bastard) on the treadmill next to him shushed him quite loudly, and for some reason, S, who is usually pretty even tempered, took offence, turned to H and asked loudly, ‘you mean you can’t talk in the gym’? 30-something-bald-bastard responds, saying, ‘yeah, go ask the instructor!’. S slams the emergency stop button on his mill, goes and seeks out the nearest instructor, who also happens to be the biggest bodybuilt monster, but who tells S, ‘no, you can talk in the gym’.
Vindicated somewhat, S gets back on his mill, tells Bald Bastard, ‘it’s ok to talk in the gym’, looks at the speed he’s running at, which is 8.9km/h, then announces to H, ‘Come, let’s warm up, AND MAKE SURE WE RUN FASTER THAN 9KM/H!’
Bald Bastard gets worked up now, probably because he doesn’t like the whole world to know he trundles at 8.9km/h for 20 minutes, and issues a challenge to S, ‘You have a problem? Come, let’s go outside and settle!’
S of course accepts by slamming his emergency stop button again, and grabs his towel and says, ‘SET, COME LAH! WHO SCARED WHO?’.
It never eventuates into fisticuffs. Mr 8.9km/h knew better than to follow S outside.
(What was funnier was that when S announced ‘let’s run faster than 9km/h’ to H, the guy running next to H got alarmed, looked at H, looked at the odometer on H’s treadmill, looked at H again, then looked straight ahead and continued trundling at a pace significantly less than 9km/h.)
Still, I think we’d better watch ourselves. Maybe the Rugby-Curry-Beer-Gym thing is making our testosterone go through the roof. It becomes a dangerous combination when you’re old enough not to run fast enough but you’re still dumb enough to pick a fight.