I’m a bit of a gym rat and have been for the past 20 years.  The nearly daily routine of lifting weights has been a great stress reliever for me and has kept me in relatively decent shape through the years, despite my tenuous relationship with cholesterol and my fervid hatred of practically all forms of cardio, especially running.  My local gym has always played host to a unique cast of characters that show up at 5:30am to get their daily workouts in before their required workdays begin.  These are the people who I see on a daily basis.  I have gotten used to their idiosyncrasies and odd habits, such that I don’t even notice them anymore.  So, on the rare occasion that I visit another gym, the unusual members in that parallel world definitely stand out.

One Saturday morning, I decided to go to a gym in a neighboring community just for a change of pace and scenery.  This gym and the gym that I regularly attended were both locations of a larger chain of workout facilities, so the layout and equipment were very familiar to me as soon as I walked in.  I had decided that today would be Arm Day as I headed over to the section of machines grouped together that focus on biceps and triceps.  My intention was to alternate sets on different machines working different muscles and then move over to dumbbells to finish it out.  The crowd early on a Saturday morning is generally sparce.  There were three men over at the bench press who were talking more than lifting, but at least they made it in; a teenager was on the squat rack and I silently commended him for being up so early on a Saturday (I imagined that it was his desire to excel on the football field that had gotten him there at this time of the morning); and three or four people were on treadmills and ellipticals offering penance to the calorie gods for Friday night’s excesses.  Given the minimal traffic, I wasn’t too concerned about not being able to get to the machines that I wanted.  At least, initially I wasn’t too concerned.

I first walked over to a bicep curl machine, set down my hand towel and water bottle on the floor, and proceeded to knock out a dozen curls of relatively light weight to get the blood flowing and wake up my muscles.  Then I moved over to a nearby tricep cable press machine and executed a dozen reps with similar light weight to the bicep wakeup set I had just completed.   Once that was done, I took a big gulp from my water bottle and walked back to the bicep curl machine, preparing my mind to do it all again in set 2, which would be executed at a heavier weight, adding more stress to the muscles than the initial set.

Just as I was pulling up the first rep of bicep curls, I caught someone in my peripheral vision. I looked up and almost made an audible gasp.  This mountain of a man had just walked over to the tricep press that I was using as part of my arm workout.  He was about 6 feet tall and easily 250 pounds or more.  He was wearing a tight, white undershirt style tank top and what appeared to be coach’s shorts.  His uncommon size led me to the easiest jab to throw at someone with his bulk.  “He’s probably on steroids”.  But even though his stature alone was enough to intimidate the bravest of men, what was more alarming was the fact that he was also wearing a full on, military-style gas mask that covered his entire face.  He looked like Tom Hardy’s Bane from The Dark Knight Rises.  It was startling.

My first reaction was a low-grade panic.  What was happening?  Was something about to go down at the 24 Hour Fitness?  I quickly scanned the room for my nearest exit and looked for similar panic in the faces of the handful of members there.  No one else appeared to be upset. He was not an easy man to miss, and no one was running for the door.  He had to have walked right by the three men leaning against the bench press, and they were still chatting away as it they were standing over beer bottles instead of 45-pound plates.  No one even looked his way.

Even though I was still mildly terrified, I began to get better control of my flight instinct and decided that he must be a regular and was not clad in anything out of the ordinary, at least for him.  That’s what I told myself anyway.  Still, I was half expecting him to yell out some guttural battle cry and start flipping over weight machines, and frankly, I wouldn’t have been particularly surprised if he had.

I was still sitting there, stuck on rep #1 of my second set of bicep curls.  I was frozen, staring at this probable terrorist.  He pulled out the pin on the tricep press from where I had placed it and reinserted it underneath the heaviest weight possible.  He began pressing the bar down, straining his triceps.  I wasn’t close enough to hear him breathe, but I imagined he sounded like Darth Vader in his mask.

After several reps, he let the weight drop with a loud clang that seemed unnecessary and aggressive (probably Roid Rage) and stood by the machine with his hands resting on his hips.  I slowly completed my first rep which I had been holding, then casually took out my phone as if I were changing my music and snapped a quick photo of the masked Hulk.  My wife just wasn’t going to believe this.  I put down my phone next to my water bottle on the floor and looked back up at the subject.  It took a moment for me to realize that the military-style, gas mask that he was wearing on his face was pointed in my direction.  And then it took me another moment to realize that meant that he was looking at me.  Bane was looking right at me as I was staring right at him.  Did he see me take a photo?  It didn’t flash, did it?  Please, Lord, tell me it didn’t flash! I could feel my pulse quicken as I quickly diverted my eyes away and jumped back into my set with rep #2, then #3.  This set was heavier than the first one, but I flew through 12 bicep curls as if there was no weight on them at all.  I attribute my sudden strength to the large amount of adrenaline coursing through my system.

As I completed the second set, I was relieved to see out of the corner of my lowered eye that Bane was no longer looking my way but had begun walking toward the restrooms.  It hadn’t occurred to me that I had been holding my breath until I saw him walk away.  I expelled the air from my lungs and felt remarkably calmer.  Was he finished with the tricep press?  He only did one set!  You don’t get arms like that only doing one set.  Maybe he needed to leave early to make a breakfast date, which I assumed included a dozen or so eggs and a couple of small animals.  He disappeared into the mens room, and I paused.  I had abandoned the idea of completing my original plan of alternating between the bicep and tricep machines since the tricep press had been commandeered by someone who did not give me the impression that he likes others to work in with him.   But if he’s done…?

There were many other machines available in the room, some even tricep machines, so why I felt the need to finish my set on that particular machine is beyond me.  But there I was, walking over to the tricep press with one eye firmly affixed to the mens room door.  I moved the pin to a lighter, more manageable weight for me and proceeded with my 12 reps.  Still no Bane.  Maybe he really was through with his workout.  Just in case, I put the pin back on the heaviest weight where I had found it, took a big swig of water, and walked back to the bicep machine for the third and final set of curls. 

I sat down at the bicep machine then placed my water bottle on the floor next to my water bottle… wait.  What?  I had two water bottles?  The situation should have been easier for me to understand than it was at first.  I think it was the panic that was setting in that was shielding me from the awful truth.  But once it became clear, it became very clear.  I had picked up Bane’s water bottle over by the tricep press.  And worse than that, I had drunk out of it.  And even worse than that, I had then taken the bottle with me.  And even worse than that, Bane had just emerged from the mens room and was heading my way.

I figured I had about ten seconds to determine my next move.  I could wait until he came back over for his second set and then walk over to him, introduce myself, hand him his water bottle, and explain what happened.  Maybe he would laugh, and we might even become fast friends.  Or maybe he would pummel me. The other option was to quickly get that water bottle back over to the tricep machine without him noticing and just pretend that I hadn’t drunk out of it.  What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me.  He abruptly stopped walking and pecked at his phone screen, presumably answering a text.   This might give me another 5 seconds or so.  Every second mattered.

He finished with his text and placed his phone into his pocket as he began walking again.  In that moment, I knew what I had to do.  I stood up from the bicep curl machine. He was almost to the tricep press. I took a deep breath.  He placed his hands on the tricep bar and prepared for his second set.  I then reached down, grabbed my phone, hand towel, and water bottle from the floor, turned on my heel and made a bee-line for the exit, leaving Bane’s water bottle on the floor where I had put it.  I never looked back.

It was sometime later that I discovered that this type of face mask is sometimes worn by serious athletes to restrict oxygen flow, forcing their hearts and lungs to work harder, thus providing a higher level of conditioning.  Who knew?  If I had been aware of that at the time, perhaps I wouldn’t have been caught so off guard and could have behaved with a little more dignity.

I haven’t been back to that gym since that day, but if I do go back and see Bane once again wearing his military-style gas mask, I think I know what I’ll do, armed with the knowledge that I now have. 

I’ll just jump on the treadmill until I see him leave.