Gym Carnie-vale

I heart my new gym.  I really do.

It's a ten minute walk from home, it has lots of space (a big deal in NY!), there always a treadmill open that isn't adjacent to someone already on a treadmill, it has a great range of machines, there is a huge stretching area, and it's about $30 less then I was paying at my old gym (and that's including the couple discount we had).  But the one thing I love most is that it is full with gym carnies.

I've been going to this gym now for less than three month, but geez, I had no idea--if I had, I would have signed up sooner.  A morning doesn't go by that I don't laugh to myself at the cast of characters that parade through the place.  I can't wait to share them all.

Gym carnies: Yo Adrian!

Gym carnies is an irregular series about the curious characters and intriguing individuals that people my gym. After a summer away from the gym, I'm heading back, but this time to a gym by my new office with a whole new set of gym carnies to rant about.
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I showed up at the new gym knowing that I'd have to put up with some kind of membership representative first. You know these people: they look jacked on the juice, are super-excited about everything, and have the cunning ability to back you into a corner to sign up for a two membership because they "like you so much, I'll give you my friends and family discount." I don't like these people. I know exactly what I want in a gym and I don't need you to force your gym down my throat thankyouverymuch.

When I presented my one-day pass at the front desk they immediately call up a membership representative. The guy who shows up could not have fit the profile any better. He wore a skin tight t-shirt and had pecs like balloons. He shook my hand right, flashed a coverboy smile, and instantly started dropping words like "bro" and "dude." For some reason Rocky Balboa saying "Yo Adrian!" flashed into my head, and it stuck. I was calling him "Yo Adrian!" in my head for the rest of the day.

He took me on a tour of the facility, which I have to admit was pretty nice. Although I always find the locker room portion so friggin awkward. Here we are, two fully dressed guys (me still in my jacket from outside), walking into a room full of bucknakedness. And me, charged with the role of attentive potential member, have to look around examining the place's details like the ample rows of lockers and the old men who walk around without a towel. Ew.

At the end of the tour we sat down at Yo Adrian!'s desk and he gave me the run down of what membership costs. I immediately thought: all you did was walk me around the place and you're already talking money. Jeez. Fortunately, a while back I discovered the trump card to get you essentially out of any uncomfortable situation, just say the words "I have to talk to my wife about this." Bam. It's over. No one can come back to that.

After that I quickly changed into my running clothes and hopped on a treadmill. During the whole run I felt like I was cheating. It felt so artificial and cheap, as if I was used to eating Kobe steaks and then suddenly someone slipped me a hamburger. I didn't like it, but I knew that it was pretty much my only option for winter running.

Afterwards I took a shower and headed back to work. The whole ordeal lasted 90 minutes (including Yo Adrian!'s spiel), which I could probably get down to 60 minutes and fit conveniently within my lunch time. Ha, after all these years of thinking it was impossible, here I am seriously figuring out how to get my runs in during lunch.

That evening I go home and actually do talk about it with my wife. Turns out her office has a killer deal with another gym--one that has locations close to my office AND her office AND our apartment. So we opted for that one instead, which meant I had to let down Yo Adrian!--not easy.

Yo Adrian! started calling me the next day. First he called during a lunch with clients, then he called a second time while I was in a meeting--how he managed to call me twice when I wasn't available is beyond statistical probability. I tried calling him back, but he had left for the day and this gym didn't have a voicemail system. So I wrote him a Dear John (Dear Yo Adrian!?) email telling him that another gym worked out better for me and Wifey; it wasn't his fault, it was our's. He was great and the time we had together was really special. It's just that we like this other place better, and yes it's cheaper, but we hoped someday he would be able to forgive us for our weakness and price conscientious.

Gym carnies: Hatsumomo

Gym carnies is an irregular series about the curious characters and intriguing individuals that people my local gym.
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It's no surprise that when I go to the gym I usually use the treadmill. The gym is where I do my tempo runs and hill runs and serves as back up on rainy days. So being that I'm on the treadmill so often I've gotten to know other treadmillites (treadmillers? treadmillians?). FOM was the first treadmillite I became acquainted with--and not by choice. Since then I've recognized other treadmillites, some were brief spats of fitness, others have stuck around for the long run (pun intended).

One of the newer treadmillites I have come to call Hatsumomo. Now, for those of you who haven't been suckered by pop culture/your wife to read Memoirs of a Geisha, Hatsumomo is a geisha in said book who is beautiful and famous. She also happens to be one bitch-ass ho--but that is beside the point. The name stuck out in my mind because once I figured out how to pronounce it I couldn't stop saying it. I especially liked saying it like a dirty old Japanese business man who is looking for more than just company from a geisha (I get very specific in my humor). Then, I saw this woman at the gym who happened to look like Li Gong, who plays Hatsumomo in the movie. The name has stuck ever since.

There are two reasons why Hatsumomo has received designation as a gym carnie. First and oddest for a neighborhood with three sushi restaurants, four Thai restaurants, and umpteen Chinese take-out places (including a Tex-Mex Chinese place), Hatsumomo is the only Asian who regularly visits my gym. My 'hood is pretty diverse, but for some reason the Asians don't hit the biggest gym in the area, at least not in mornings. So Hatsumomo stands out in that respect.

The second reason for her carnihood, is that Hatsumomo is one of those rare treadmillites that has a death grip on the treadmill for her entire run. Not just for stretching, not just for slowing down--but for the entire four or five miles of her run she holds onto the machine for dear life. Sure, I have my weird habits while on the treadmill--I run with the TV off (which apparently is unusual in my gym)--but holding onto the machine? What is that?

Now, I should say that Hatsumomo runs with some Velcro contraption around one of her knees, so at first I thought she was running through an injury. So as a fellow runner I admired her for trying to get through her runs while injured and using the machine as a crutch. But it's been several months by now. The injury is either permanent or non-existent--and in either case it would be silly to continue running so.

What really boggles my mind is that Hatsumomo is a good runner. Usually the death grip is employed when the runner is a novice, but Hatsumomo cranks out miles at about a nine minute pace and usually runs four+ miles at a time. The woman can run--even if has has handicapped herself.

Also, she has a very particular way of bracing the machine. She'll have the TV on and with her right hand grip the screen, which is attached to top of the dash board. With her left hand she'll hold onto the side rails. It looks like her arms are stuck mid-hurdle-jump.

Of course, in my mind, I don't understand this. Mostly because I'm as much of a treadmill purest as possible. I don't do running starts (get the 'mill going before you step on it) or running pauses (leave the 'mill going while you take a breather). I only hold onto the rails if I'm stretching. I feel like holding onto the machine--especially in an asymmetrical way like Hatsumomo--just throws off your stride and makes you do a lot of unnecessary work that could be damaging. But, hey, that's just my two cents.

Gym carnies: Squeaker

Wifey and I pay quite a bit for watching the parade of oddities at our gym. It's more than I would like to pay and more than if we joined either of the gyms our offices partner with. For comparison, when Wifey and I were members of her office's fancy gym in Manhattan with it's uber rare swimming pool, free access to multiple locations, and access to a private beach club in Connecticut, we paid $10 less per month than what we're paying now for our hussied up version of Gold's Gym.

However, our gym comes with two deal-making conveniences that individually are compelling, but together make it the clear choice. First, the gym is open 24 hours, meaning that we can never use the "oh the gym is going to close in 30 minutes, I guess I'll have to go tomorrow" excuse. Second, the gym is a five minute walk from our apartment (yup, I've timed it). The sheer convenience overrides the exorbitant price.

Even though we pay too much for membership the gym does try to make it feel like they aren't ripping us off every month. They recently expanded the woman's locker room (what for, I don't know, but they did it). They always reupholster the seats when the pleather starts to crack. They are constantly replacing older machines with newer versions...except for one.

Despite the recent flood of next generation ellipticals there remains just one--isolated in the back row of the cardio section--that is teetering on the edge of becoming an antique. It boggles my mind as to how this one machine, a contemporary of the Nordic Track, was overlooked for replacement with it's clunky display screen and clumsy design. Generally, I wouldn't have even noticed this machine except for one characteristic: it squeaks.

It is a loud, noticeable, high-pitched squeak that can be heard throughout the gym: I've heard it over my headphones and I can hear it from the bathroom. It is repetitive, persistent, stabbing squeak--the type of squeak Hitchcock used for the shower scene in Psycho.

It is also a selective squeak. Although several people use this squeaking elliptical only one person can elicit the squeak, and she is called Squeaker.

I have limited elliptical experience, but I feel pretty confident in saying that there is only one way to use an elliptical, so Squeaker can't really be using the machine wrong. Also, I've seen people of varying weight use this machine, so I don't think it is a noise triggered by weight. She just does something right to make that noise come out of that machine. Maybe she secretes a particular kind of hormone that gets all wrapped up in the innards of the machine and causes things to rub together that otherwise wouldn't.

What is really odd about Squeaker, though, is that she is always on this same machine. At least once a week when I get to the gym she's there squeaking away. And like I said, the sound travels through headphones, so she knows she's making this noise and that everyone can hear her. But she goes about oblivious to the fact. I couldn't image being on a machine that squeaks with every other step. As it is I get self-conscious and switch machines if the treadmill I'm on squeaks or bounces.

I am also convinced that Squeaker is paying off someone on the gym staff. Like I said before the gym is pretty good about fixing equipment and has a pile of "We are in the process of fixing this equipment" signs ready to be affixed at the first sign of wear and tear. However, the repair fairy manages to look over this one particular machine.

I smell a conspiracy.

Yeti courant: a gym carnies FAQ

Gym carnies is an irregular series about the curious characters and intriguing individuals that people my local gym.
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After every gym carnie profile there are always a bunch of questions left lingering out there about how much I stretch the truth and “what would happen if you did X to such-and-such gym carnie?” Here I answer those questions and provide much needed hilarious updates on the various gym carnies profiled to date.

Q: From Laura regarding FOM: You should totally take his machine someday and see what happens.
A: Funny, that thought never crossed my mind until Laura brought it up. Let’s see what happens when you throw a wrench into the works. One morning, not too long after I wrote about FOM, I went to the gym for a tempo run and saw FOM on the elliptical. I thought “this is my chance.”

I sneakily went behind his row of ellipticals and straight for his treadmill—even though every other treadmill was open. I kept one eye on FOM as I started running to see what his reaction would be. Low and behold when he finished on the elliptical he turned around and saw me two miles into an intense looking run. He walked over to the treadmills, but he knew that there was no way I was getting off the machine any time soon. He took one long look at the treadmills, put on a pouty old man face, and walked away defeated to the stair climber on the other side of the gym. Victory!

Since then, FOM has returned to his machine and I have kept my distance. I figure messing with the mind of an old man is just not right. The good news is that he’s been able to keep his gas in check (or is it in cheek?) when on the treadmills.

Q: From Dean regarding FOM: Runners are notoriously profligate farters.
A: This, from personal experience, is absolutely true. However, you have to keep in mind that first, I don’t really know if FOM is a runner. Sure, he wears a Long Island Marathon t-shirt from the 80s, and yes, he does walk on the treadmill—but neither of those really necessitates a runner. Second, and more importantly, is that in truth I have only assumed that it’s FOM who has been fumigating the treadmill rows with farts. While I’m on the treadmill I have my iPod going full blast and people are moving all around the machines, it still could just be a coincidence and not a causal relationship.

That is, until now.

People, I have concrete confirmation that FOM is a free-wheeling gym farter.

Just this week I was stretching after a run next to the abs workout equipment. Here I am recovering from a brutal tempo run and then out of nowhere FOM plants himself on one of the captain’s chairs next to me. I’m thinking: “this is odd, FOM never comes to this part of the gym; something must be going down.”

It’s just him and I in this corner of the gym, there is no one around for at least 40 feet. He has his usual headphones plugged in and is crunching away. I have put away Liam Garu and stretching out my IT bands, when I notice FOM pause and take a sideways glance over the rest of the gym. You know, the type of look you take when you’re tired. Well, in this case it was also the type of look that surveys the surroundings and sees only the punk kid that stole your beloved treadmill once and decides it’s ok to let not one, but two of them rip.

Yes. It was pffffffft followed by a squeaker that did a diminuendo through two octaves.

I couldn’t believe it. I stopped mid-stretch out of amazement and took a nonchalant glance at him. He was staring away off into the distance, guilt written in invisible ink all over his face. I couldn’t hold it in any more and walked away. FOM had his revenge, but I was laughing the whole way home.

Q: From Kevin regarding Yeti: Good luck hunting the elusive yeti. You may just catch him one of these days.
A: I have confirmation that Yeti is indeed a runner and not an anomaly of my gym!! Toward the end of training for the Newport Marathon last fall I was on a recovery Wednesday morning run. I took the normal route that I take on Wednesdays to the park and back. Halfway through the run I saw a runner approaching. He was tall and had excellent form. And I thought, is that Yeti—the Yeti? As he got closer I could make out the spandex clothes, the Brooks shoes, the holier-than-thou sneer—it was him! Absolutely and for sure I was looking at Yeti running! I reached down to my pocket, but remembered that I left my phone at home. There would be no picture.

And I think there will never be a picture. I must have scared Yeti off because since then I haven’t seen him again: running or at the gym. He has completely disappeared—perhaps returned to the frozen tundra to be with his peoples. What was strange about this sighting was that I have run this route about 30 times on Wednesday mornings. Never before have I seen Yeti on this run--the stars must have aligned to appease me for this one fleeting moment.

Q: From Nitmos regarding Miguel: God bless you, Miguel, for bravely standing at your post through the assault on your senses.
A: Yet another gym carnie that I have scared away. I overheard Miguel talking to one of the friendlier gym patrons while I was in the bathroom stall (really, where else would I be?). He told the gym patron that January 15 would be his last day, he was going back home to Colombia for a new “business opportunity.”

Now, I think we all know the real reason why Miguel left the gym. There are only so many times you can force a smile on your face when someone is spoiling your good work. Everyone has a breaking point, and once Miguel realized that my Marathon training wasn’t just a onetime thing—that not only was I doing it again, but I was doing it twice this year—I think he snapped. But I do think going all the way to Colombia is a bit excessive. He could have just gotten a different job in the city.

By the way, I learned that Miguel’s name is actually…Jose. I will miss you Miguel-turned-Jose. The new guy isn't quiet the same.

Q: From The Laminator: What's perplexing to me is how your gym manages to fit all those carnies under one roof...there must be a max occupancy violation in there somewhere.
A: Well, there is some truth in this. There does appear to be some limit to the amount of eccentrics allowed in my gym, which I presume is why some of them go away (not only Yeti and Miguel, but Boobie has altogether disappeared as well). They have to make space for the new carnies that are coming in, lured by the New Year’s discount membership.

Something that I’ve also noticed is that I have yet to write up any of the female gym carnies. It is not for lack: there are plenty of women at my gym and I am an equal opportunity parodier. I think the next couple of gym carnie write ups will focus on the gentler--yet equally odd--sex.

Gym carnies: Boobie

Gym carnies is an irregular series about the curious characters and intriguing individuals that people my local gym.
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Male cleavage is unavoidable in a gym. There are far too many jacked up guys, pumping far too much iron, in far too clique wifebeaters to miss the occassional guy checking out this pecs. (And if you live in Michigan, you have Nitmos flaunting his herculean pecs on the street, so there is no where you are safe from gratitous man cleavage.) Just like the stinky old men and the people who sweat too much, it's something you accept as part of the gym environment.

However, there are boundaries of acceptability, and my gym just happens to have someone that crosses them: Man Boobs, but we'll call him Boobie--cause it's funnier.

The first tenet of man cleavage is the depth of cleavage. In all my years of being male, I've come to the conclusion that maximum acceptable depth of visible cleverage for a guy is the nipple line. The nipple line is the imaginary line that stretches from one nipple across your chest to the other nipple, as illustrated by the red line in the figure below:


Conversely, the acceptable maximum acceptable depth of visible cleavage for women, at least according to celebrities, is the ankle line, illustrated below:


The second tenet of man clevage relates to chest hair. Essentially, if you have the typical amount of chest hair,


and particularly if you have excessive chest hair,

then you cover it up. If you have no chest hair,

then it's acceptable to show it off, because you are prepubesent and don't have body-image complexes yet.

There is also the recent trend of the trimmed chest hair:


You don't like your chest hair, but you're not comfortable enough to take it all off. So you're left with a manicured lawn of half-grown hair. It's weird, but acceptable to show off.

These are all pretty basic male cleavage guidelines that I think all men would agree with. Except for Boobie.

I must admit that Boobie does indeed have an impressive chest. I see him at the fly machine or the bench press while I'm on the treadmill. He'll do an set of reps and then sit at the machine, stare at the floor, contemplate life, go over his grocery list...and then do another set. He is completely focused on building his chest and nothing else. He has therefore become disproportionately busty. Now enter the cleavage. Here you have a guy with big ol' man boobs wearing a tank top cut way south of the nipple line exposing copious amounts of hairy man cleavage.

It's a little perplexing. But what's really puzzling is that this is not an isolated incident. Every time Boobie goes to the gym he wears the exact same tank top, which is gross and makes me wonder why anyone would do that. But then again, I wonder the same thing about all the gym carnies and their odd little traits which they are obivious to.

Gym carnies: Miguel

Gym Carnies an irregular series about the curious characters and intriguing individuals that people my local gym. WARNING: this entry contains vivid recounts of bowels movements.
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Miguel is my favorite gym carnie. Sure, he doesn't have the most interesting nickname, but one time I think I heard someone refer to him as Miguel and since then that is what I call him. I also respect Miguel and so have purposely not given him a funny nickname. He doesn't have a peculiar mannerism or curious trait. He doesn't embarrass himself by wearing a neon 80's track suit or grunting loudly while lifting weights. Actually, Miguel doesn't even workout at the gym. Miguel happens to be the janitor assigned to the men's locker room on weekday mornings.

I love Miguel. I have never spoken more than two words to him, but I love him none the less. He's at the gym often before the sun rises sweeping and mopping and moving towels around and putting up with the manager's crap--it's all pretty thankless. Then, on top of that, Miguel has to deal with me.

What, pray tell, does he have to deal with? Take Thursday of last week for example:

I go to the gym to run for 60 minutes with some inclines sprinkled in. By the time I get there the GU and gallon of water I had at home kick in and I take a pre-run bathroom visit. Great idea because it turns out that I had more waiting at the back door than I thought. I get out of the stall and guess who's there in the locker room collecting the dirty towels? That's right, Miguel. He makes immediate eye contact with me, says "Hello." I say "Buenas dias" (because I'm respectful of our mutual heritage that way) in return and walk out because I have a look of "I just did very dirty things to the toilet you're about to clean" written all over my face.

I hit the treadmill and start going. I feel great for the first 45 minutes of the run, but right after I finish a "hill" at mile five my stomach starts growling--it is not happy. It is not happy at all. I look at the timer, only 12 more minutes to go, I can
hold out...I can so hold out. But my stomach has a different idea.

I have to fart and it is not going to be a silent one. I can just tell. It's going to be loud and quiet possibly a little messy. But I only have ten minutes left! I keep pushing through, concentrating hard on making sure nothing comes out my rear. I feel extra sweat roll down my neck as I try to make it go away. And then it's gone. I won! I won! It's gone and I can take it easy for the rest of the way. Or so I thought.

A fierce tremor rips through my abdomen. If my shirt was off I would see the flesh move. The fart is gone, this is true. But now comes the poop. I have just five minutes to go--less than a mile!--and I will be off the machine. Just hold out sRod! So I'm buckling down trying to do everything to calm down my stomach: shorter strides, regular breathing, straight posture. But no matter what I try, the sensation doesn't get weaker: my stomach knows that this is the end of the run and it is not going to let a thing like public decency get in the way of poopication.

Five, four, three, two, one. I slam on the "stop" button and get the hell off that machine. I left my water and keys on the machine: I can come back for those, but this poop is coming fast. I'm hobbling over the empty treadmills, behind the ellipticals. Come on sphincter, down fail me now! I pass the first desk and round the corner, walking as nonchalantly as you can when you feel like a cantaloupe is about to fall out of your shorts.

I'm halfway down the hall when a big wave comes down from my stomach and I stop dead in my tracks. Oh no--I'm so close, just 30 feet away. I pretend that I got a "cramp" and that I need to "stretch" and look way too concerned to notice the people passing me. But really, if I take another step a cantaloupe will fall out of my
shorts.

I stayed there stretching my "cramp" for about 30 seconds. The wave passes. Whew. Onward to the bathroom. I dash for the first stall I can find--I can feel another stomach wave building up, but I'm here! I've made it! I'm free and clear (and clean)!--and as I'm about to close the stall door someone says "it's wet." What's wet? Are my shorts wet? Did I lose the battle with my stomach???

It's Miguel. He's cleaning the stalls and hasn't finished the stall I ran into. I get out of the stall and he quickly jumps in and wipes the seat dry. He can tell I am a man on the verge of pooping his pants, he knows that no wet toilet seat can stop me, he knows that I just need a toilet. But he insists on it being a clean toilet. I thank Miguel and then rush in, lock the door, and...well...you know: test the plumbing, drop a deuce, release the hostages, drop the kids off at the pool, purge the cache, talk to a man about a horse, take the Browns to the Super Bowl.

I wrap up my business--and what business it was, thank God I made it!--and get out of the stall. I hate those "I know what you just did looks" when you come of out the stall, so I try to avoid eye contact with anyone. But who do I see first as I come out of the stall? Miguel. He looks at me and instead of steaming with resentment for facilitating the defacement of his work he flashes me a smile. A genuine, "thank you for pooping" smile. I kid you not. There was no hiding what I did in that stall. Even people in Alaska were waking-up from their sleep wonder what that sound and God-awful smell were. But here is the man entrusted with keeping this stall clean smiling at me as if I were his best friend.

So Miguel is my best friend, mostly because he puts up with my shit (pun intended). He keeps the bathroom clean, so that when I bust in the locker room ready to explode on the spot, I have a dry seat to sit on. Thank you Miguel--whatever your real name may be.

Gym carnies: Yeti

Gym Carnies an irregular series about the curious characters and intriguing individuals that people my local gym.
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There are certain telltale signs of a runner: a sweaty old race t-shirt, dirty-yet-loved sneakers, an air of humility earned from running races, an all too wide grin that comes from the high levels of endorphins. We all exhibit these outward signs as a result of running. However, what if you exhibit all the signs of a runner, but never in fact run? Such is the problem with the Yeti.

Similar to his namesake, there are many signs that Yeti is a runner, yet to this day no one has produced hard evidence that Yeti does run.

The first time I saw Yeti I took him for your average male gym type. He looks to be in his 40s and is probably the most fit middle-aged man I've ever seen: muscular, very lean, probably about 6'5", and could easily pass for a model. He executes every lift, pull, and push with exacting precision--the type of flawlessness you gain by performing the same movement over and over. He walks around the gym very upright and always has a way of appearing to look down on things.

I really took Yeti as just your regular iron-pumping gym type, except for one thing. Without fail he always comes to the gym in a coordinated spandexy running outfit and spiffy running shoes.

I'm all for spandex--as a runner I own several pieces of spandex clothing--but I don't wear them to the gym. Very few guys come to the gym outfitted to run a race, and even fewer dress like that every time they go to the gym. Also, very few people at the gym wear Brooks or Saucony--these brands are typically reserved for runners. This leads me to believe that Yeti is a runner, because no one else but a runner would invest so much in spandex or fancy shoes.

Additionally, I've overheard Yeti mention something about "races" and "an injury" to another Gym Carny. I've also noticed that Yeti does some pretty intense weight training on his legs. Just more fuel for the legend that Yeti is a runner.

But this all brings us back to the initial problem that in order to be a runner you must run. You can't have symptoms without first having a disease (right, Laminator?). And I haven't seen Yeti run.

I've seen him on the elliptical and the bike at the gym, but never the treadmill. I have run around this neighborhood at least once a week for the past year and have never spotted him. His shoes are always clean. And because of Yeti's endless supply of spandex, he doesn't wear race t-shirts.

Now, in the name of fairness, I have to say that I have had some reported Yeti sightings of my own, but nothing has conclusively proven to me that he is a runner.

Reported Yeti sighting #1: during the Healthy Kidney 10K, as I was cresting over Harlem Hill (Mile 2) I saw someone bent over stretching a leg muscle. As I approached the figure in the bright morning light I could tell the person's clothes would surely be in Yeti's closet--and the person's physique seemed very similar to Yeti's. However, in a second I was past him and didn't get to see his face. There were 8,000 runners out there that day, it really could have been anyone.

Reported Yeti sighting #2: as I was sitting on the subway on Sunday morning waiting to head out for my long run I saw what I could have sworn was Yeti. He passed the car I was in, but I think he was wearing running clothes and headphones. But of course, I wasn't sure it was him, and even if it was, I don't have anyway to prove that he was going running, even though typically the only reason anyone would be on the subway at 8:30am on a Sunday in running clothes is because they are going to go running.

Reported Yeti sighting #3: this morning I was doing 5 x 1000m at the track instead of the gym. I rarely go out to the track on Tuesdays, but I want to acclimate to the warmer weather as quickly as possible, given that Fairfield is just 2.5 weeks away. As I rounded the turn during a recovery lap, I saw a tall, muscular, very lean runner running away from the track. From a distance, it looked like it could have been Yeti, but I was too far to tell. And this runner had on some non-spandex shorts, obviously it couldn't be him.

One day I hope to have proof that Yeti exists--I mean runs. Although I have no real reason to want to see him run, because I guess techinically at that point he will stop being a Gym Carny and start being a normal person. And where's the fun in that?

Gym carnies: FOM

This is the first installment of (what I hope will become) an irregular series about the curious characters and intriguing individuals that people my local gym.

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I am sure you know what I mean by gym carnies: those people who lurk around your gym as if they were stuck there and can't escape, but at the same time don't seem to really want to be anywhere else. These are the people who are pumping iron when you get there, and plugging away at the stairmaster when you leave. You assume they must have lives outside of the gym, but on the other hand, you've never seen them outside of the gym. They are usually on a first name basis with each other and the gym staff, and carry themselves with an air of "gymier-than-thou."

There is a particular gym carnie that seems to have taken a liking to me. Perhaps it's because he sees me run a lot and from the 1989 Long Island Marathon t-shirt he wears every other day I assume he used to be a runner--or ate a runner that was passing over his bridge and kept the t-shirt. I don't know this gym carnie's name, but let's call him FOM, or Farting Old Man for long.

FOM is a creature of habit. He is on the elliptical in the middle of the first row of machines every Tuesday and Thursday before 6am. After about 45 minutes of ellipting (ellipticizing? ellipticating? faux-running?) FOM then moves on to the treadmill, and much like with the elliptical, he has his favorite. The first treadmill in the second row of treadmills is his favorite. You know how babies love pacifiers? Such is the love FOM has for this particular treadmill. Every Tuesday and Thursday he places his towel on the right handle bar of the machine. He then plugs in his white headphones and tunes into the TV (always FOX News Channel). FOM then cranks the incline up to 15--so high that he must death-grip the TV in order to keep him from falling off--and proceeds to walk for what I assume is the rest of the day.

FOM is very intense while on the treadmill and nothing will interrupt his work out. If a song pops into his head while on the treadmill, he'll hum it. If his treadmill is making a funny sound, he won't change machines. And above all else, if--nay, when--when he has gas, he cannot leave the treadmill: gas must be passed on the treadmill. The more people are around FOM, the more this holds true. We're not talking loud, butt-trumpet farts. FOM's forte is the classic SBD (silent but deadly)--the type that sneak up on you and make you look around for the dead animal that just crawled into the room. These farts aren't just rank, they are offensive.

The other morning I arrived at the gym to find that most of the treadmills where taken except for the one next to FOM's favorite. Even though I knew FOM was a creature of habit I figured he would at least respect the universally accepted one-machine rule of separation. Anyways, FOM was still on the elliptical, so there would be plenty of time for the other treadmills to clear out.

Thirty minutes later FOM gets off the elliptical, which is fine because most of the three rows of treadmills have cleared out so he has his choice of machines, all of which he can watch FOX News on and incline to vertical.

But wait, he's passing the first row of treadmills. No.

He's turning down my empty aisle of treadmills, passing EIGHT perfectly usable machines. No way.

He steps onto the machine next to me. What the hell???

Yup, there were about 20 other treadmills that he could have used, all of them providing more than one-machine of separation, but FOM has to go with his regular machine right next to me. Aye Dios, porque? I hunker down, hoping for the best but anticipating the worst. And true to habit, about 15 minutes later he starts letting them rip. Sweet Jesus, what does this man eat? I start looking around wildly with a look of disgust, to show to anyone within smelling distance that I am not the perpetrator but I am looking for him/her. (Quick note: why do we always try to find who farted? What purpose does that serve?) I power through the rest of the run half-suffering from the noxious fumes, half-laughing because I knew it was coming.

I get off the treadmill and haul my ass over to the stretching area, which mercifully happens to be located on the opposite side of the gym. I go through all my stretches and go to walk out. Out of the corner of my eye I see FOM still plugging away at the treadmill, still at a 90 degree angle, but now he's talking to another gym carnie, COM (Cardio Old Man)...but he is another story, for another time.