Inspiration

Thursday night I was at the gym "working my chest", benching just enough to feel it, but not enough to truly justify leaving the house. I just didn't have it in me Thursday night. Just didn't, man.

When I feel this way, I look around at all the other sweaty chumps and try to find the cats who want to be here just as much as I don't so I can give them the "I'm with ya, brother" nod. Most of them are easy to find. I know who they are because I've categorized all of the cardio-bangers and circuit-clankers around me. You see, most of these fucks fall into one of three categories:

1) The 'Supdudes: The tanktoppers who live for this fucking place. Greeting each other with a head nod and silent, "'Sup, dude?" Sporting nipple through the sleeves of their sleeveless shirts. Their necks wider than their skulls. Arms that look like legs. "Cuts" in in body parts that don't even have muscles... like their eyes?!?

Dude, put the weights down. You have eye muscles, bro.

2) The Motivaters: The peeps that are only here because they motivated themselves to be here on a tri-weekly basis. You know, here for the health of it. Like me. Me and them hating it for a hour-and-a-half three times a week. Putting in our time like prisoners, then talking incessantly in the car on the way home about "how glad we were that we went".

3) The No-Business Crowd: 'Nuff said. Walking 6 minutes at a 2.5 on the treadmill. Wiping their brow of the sweat they worked up closing the car door on their way in. Rushing out to get home to a fatty oven roast, slice of Wonder with a dab of Country Crock, a side of corn and mashed. See, like I said, this is the No-Business Crowd, cuz these people have absolutley "no business" being here.

Now, here we all were and I had to find one of my own so I could throw him a nod and half-smile. I looked around but everyone primarily fit into Cats 1 and 3. Nobody was motivating it that night. Not a soul. Everyone either wanted to be there or just didn't want to be there. I was the only dick half-assing it Thursday night.

But, then, as I struggled to push a buck-fifty away from my chest, I saw... Him... a new guy... NEW... brand-spanking... Category #4... the man I called: Inspiration!

Inspiration was banging it away on the elliptical. Really going to town. Well, not really going to town, more trying to go to town. The bottom line was this: He had the focus of a Category 1, the energy of a Category 2 and the body of a Category 3.

The body of a 3.

So, where was this prick getting his Cat 1 drive with his Cat 2 energy in the shell of a 3?

I banged out another set of "chest", watching him, trying to figure out how I, a clear case 2, could bump up my focus to Category 1 and really kick-out these workouts.

Nothing seemed unusual in his motion. Nothing seemed particularly different in his speed. Certainly there was nothing about his flabby physique that was feeding his strength. He clearly had none.

So, what was this motherfucker's secret?

I looked him up and down, trying to be mindful of the unwritten guy-rule at the gym of "not staring too long at another fella".

He was dressed, totally, as a Cat 3. Cotton gym shorts circa High School Phys Ed. A vacation purchased tee: Sea World. White. Black short sleeves. Iron-on white racing stripes atop both sleeves. Sans ball cap. The only thing different about this running monkey and his fellow Category 3's were his old-school, over-the-head, headphones.

"YES!!! That shit must be in those headphones," I ah-ha'd in my head.

I wondered what was so fucking inspiring in the vibrations those tiny speakers were delivering to his ears. I started at the pods themselves and followed the left side cord to the cord blend, where the left and right join at the knot.

Down.

Down.

Looking for an MP3.

Looking for his iPod.

But... NO!!!

Inspiration was connected to the video display. This Fat Fuck was watching TELEVISION!!! Inspiration turns out to be the only guy EVER to be connected to the audio from the TV display at the top of the cardio machines.

So...

Now, that he's connected... what's so goddamn inspiring?

What was making him circle his feet next to each other? POOT-PUH-POOT!

I pressed another buck-fifty, readying myself for the greatest workout inspiration of all time.

My eyes floated from the butt of his audio cord to the bottom of the monitor...

His drive... his Inspiration... was coming from...

Mass. Catholic Mass. This dude was watching church.

Now, I've seen the the live show a million times and even in the throws of Catechismic concert, Mass is a snore.

But this Eucharistic ellipticaller was just staring at Father O'Fattery's Thursday night sermon. Sweating with each wave of the telecast incense. Mock-running to the Alter.

I pressed a buck-twenty-five (because the buck-and-a-half was too heavy), looking, staring, a want for his Inspiration. I so truly wanted to be "also with Him".

Lord, hear my prayer.

But, unfortunately, as a well-known Atheist (in my own circle), He, Him, The Almighty was not going to grant me My wish. I had to find Mine from Somewhere else. So, I put the weights down another 25 to a simple 100 and pressed away from the cavity where my Soul ought to be. Maybe if I believed in He, I could go a full set at the buck-and-a-half, maybe He would have provided me with the Strength that He was providing to the Prophet on the Elliptical machine.

CLANK!

My Penance was done so I sat at the machine, looking over to my exercising Moses, the weights still raised. I just watched him running in place. Running to the Promised Land. Running with everything he had. Running with...

Oooh, that fat guy's getting pooped.

His legs started to slow. He wobbled.

The sweat no longer spriting his cheeks, but pouring down his face like the thorn-provided blood cascading down the cheek of Christ. I began to fear that the Lord had let this poor bastard wander the Land of Sweat and Honey alone.

His Sea of Schvitz rained down his forehead and parted at the bridge of his nose. He used the last of his energy to drop his hand down to the volume control of the Mass he was watching to turn up the sound.

HE WAS TURNING UP THE VOLUME!!! THE LORD WASN'T LOUD ENOUGH!!!

Then, it dawned on me, by gum, he wasn't watching Mass for the Inspiration, this fat-ass was watching it for - SALVATION. He thought he wasn't going to make it.

HEH-HEH!

This motherfucker is a Cat 3. Faker. Hope you have a heart attack, you big fat phony!

I clanked down the last of my pyramid workout (lowered the weights because I started to get hungry for dinner, not because I have some muscle build-up plan). I wiped down the remnants of my sweat from the seat (that I earned) and as I walked behind this False Prophet, this Phony Prophet, I whispered, "Dude, if you think it's going to turn out this bad, get off the machine."