Those 10 days at the gym

I had never seen her before. And her immaculate beauty made it difficult to look away. I pushed harder and harder on the treadmill, as beads of sweat formed by the sides of my unshaven face, only to break down and fall on the moving belt by the thrust of my jogs. The heart pounded an extra beat, overshooting the maximum heart rate to a level fit for half my age. On another day, this would have pleased me enough to brag about to my wife and the kids. But today, it had more to do with the revisit of a long forlorn feeling in the heart than any repetitious flexing of muscles.

She had come into the gym towards the fag end of my daily routine. I decided to carry on, even though I was getting late for work. This was until I saw the gym manager, smilingly pointing to his wrist watch, signaling the end of my rationed treadmill time. Stupid, I cried inside, for the gym managers to impose such failed socialist ideas in these laissez faire times. She must be new in the condo, I wondered, as I scuttled out of the gym, sneaking furtively at her one more time.

She kept interrupting into my thoughts throughout the day. I was a confused mass of emotions; a primordial soup of feelings thrown into a maelstrom, oscillating between the magnetic pull of attraction on one hand and coy guilt on the other. I was happily married with two kids and would soon be turning forty.

Next day morning, I went into the gym full of anticipation for a repeat meeting, but she was not there. Disappointed, I began my regular drill -

jumping jacks for warm up

full body stretches for flexibility

strength training for chest, quads and abs

treadmill for the heart and love handles

I was almost done when, much to my chagrin, she entered. I followed her with my gaze, alternating between the treadmill ergometer and the mirrored wall, determined to make some eye contact, until I caught the manager’s eyes again, smiling and pointing to his wrist watch, signaling the time to stop. Darn the gym mandarins, I cursed again, in silence.

I was at my petulant best at work, as I confronted the niggling doubt whether she had seen me at all. I wasn’t a show-stopping-eye-popping hulk after all. My irritation was visible enough for my secretary to notice. Keen not to broach the gym matter, I gave her the lame excuse of having a bad head-ache. In reality, it was this humiliating feeling, deep down, of being so royally ignored that stoked my annoyance.

The next few days I started for gym a little late, hoping to improve our overlap. And while the ruse meant being delayed to work, the royal snub seemed divinely ordained as I continued to be unceremoniously unobserved. I badly needed to do something unusual to attract her attention. Sure, I could fall off the rotary, but that may beget her sympathies more than admiration. I needed to be bold and different. This is when I thought of Tabata.

I used to do Tabata several years ago, as a quick and dirty way to rid myself of unwanted body fat. Eight high intensity intervals of thirty seconds each, on the stationary bike, interspersed between bursts and rests of twenty and ten seconds respectively. But remarkably easy that it seemed, I could barely go beyond six repetitions then. Now, after this gap, it would be foolhardy to attempt the full routine and so I decided to settle for the half way mark – four rounds in all. It helped that weekend was around and I would not have to worry about getting late for work.

It poured hard that night and I was woken up several times by the pitter-patter sound of monsoon rain against the glass window panes, deafened every now and then by thunderous growls of bright sparks across a very clouded sky. By morning, the rain had subsided to a light drizzle and I could also see the sun peeping out over the hills. As the warm rays pierced through the moist air cooled by the overnight downpour, a multi-colored arch broke across the sky. The first rainbow of the season, I mused.

Shrugging off the coziness, I started my walk to the gym, carrying my canvas shoes in a cloth bag to change into once inside. This was again one of the rules of the gym administration, enforced strongly during the rains to prevent the gym equipment to get soiled by wet mud sticking to the soles. As I sat on one of the dice shaped chairs in the small sized locker room, changing my shoes, she walked in as well, bag in hand and sat on the dice chair immediately to my right. Not all gym rules sucked, I chuckled to myself while realizing it was the tenth day since I had seen her first. My mind was working overtime to find the slightest pretext to break into a conversation. As I finished, I took a deep breath, summing up the courage to utter a casual 'hi'. But before I could do anything, she just got up and moved into the exercise hall located in the middle.

I was cross for having missed what seemed like an opportunity handed on a platter. But nevertheless gathered myself together and started about my own routine, resolutely looking for the right break to initiate the Tabata. Two things needed to happen for that. Firstly, she had to be on one of treadmills as these machines were closest to the stationary bikes and provided a clear view of people working on them through the mirror on the front wall. Secondly, one of the bikes had to be free for myself during that time. The stars seemed to be aligned today, as I watched her move to the treadmill immediately adjacent to a vacant standing cycle. I was only half-way through my crunches but wasted no time in dropping them and making a dash for it.

The setting seemed perfect as I rolled the pedals slowly while she walked briskly on the belt. After a quick warm up, I decided to launch straight into Tabata. Taking a deep breath, I pushed on the pedals with full might, conjuring a top speed in excess of 50 kmph as I completed the first twenty seconds. The second and third intervals were progressively more onerous, and I felt a compelling urge to soak up as much oxygen as possible. As I paused for one last time before the final round, I couldn't but help notice her gaze becoming pointedly interested in my efforts. Encouraged, I pumped all energy through my legs for one last time.

It lasted only about ten seconds before I came to an abrupt halt, slouching on the bike, face down and gasping for air like a dog after a fetch game. I failed to notice that her treadmill had stopped too, till I heard her voice.

"Are you alright Sir?” she asked.

I nodded clumsily wanting to say that I was fine, but words struggled to come out of my mouth. What came out instead was vomit as I felt a strong urge to puke. I jumped off the bike, barely managing to hold my balance and rushed to the washroom conscious of several eyes following me. It took what seemed like eternity for the lactic acid to recede from my blood stream before I started feeling normal again. As I re-emerged, I couldn't help but notice, amidst the cacophony of concerned voices of fellow gym members that she had already left.

I did not see her again after that day and never really came to know who she was. I felt like asking around, but decided against it, as the folks in my condominium had sharp eyes for such things and wagging tongues to match. It's been a few years since and while the memories have paled a bit, my heart is still enveloped by a warm feeling whenever I think of her while working out at the gym. It was an impetuous infatuation that has left a very special emotion to linger on.