Downtown from Beacon Hill (Photo of the Day)
A Different Kind of Work Out
Ten oh five on a Saturday morning, and it looks like Dave isn’t going to show up. I’m standing in a parking lot with three other guys. A Crossfit gym, a “box” somewhere in Seattle. At least it’s trying to be a nice day. The rain is down to just a few drops and the sun occasional peeks from behind bored gray clouds.
We’re all pacing, geared up and ready to get in there and wreck our bodies. Me, I ran here from my house, just a mile or so away. On one of my first days at the gym, Dave said “we don’t do the same workout twice. That’s the problem with runners—always doing the same thing, over and over again, their bodies adapt.” I wish. I’d love to adapt enough to survive the half marathon I signed up for next month.
One of the guys says, “Had to wake him, last week. I showed up at nine, had to bang on the door.”
I furrow my brow. “Wait, does Dave live here?”
The guy nods, and the other two guys look up, paying attention. “Yeah. He moved out of his old place a few months ago.”
I think about why I’m here. I’m getting old, getting fat, need a shock to my system. The good life has made me comfortable, I could say, if I was given to that sort of musing. Maybe I should live in a gym too. Nothing to do all day but pick up heavy weights, cleaning up after every class. Arms like a gorilla. Calves like tree trunks.
One guy checks his watch a few times. I’m tempted to go up to the door, cup my hands against the glare and peer in. What am I going to see? A guy in sleeping bag, laid out next to a pile of dumb bells, his dog curled up at his feet?
Another guy says, “I saw him after the last class, yesterday. He was heading to a bar with my roommate.”
We all chuckle. As if that explains everything. I can’t imagine what a 6 foot, 250 pound guy with 5% body fat has to drink to get too drunk to be up by ten in the morning. He’s not paying for drinks with the money I’ve given him—I used a Groupon.
Ten past ten. Our pacing has slowed a little bit. By now we would have been through our warm-ups. Dave would have given the Crossfit vets their Workout-of-the-Day, and they’d be doing some preliminary exercises. Us newbies would be picking up an empty barbell and putting it back down again. Concentrating on form. Dave would be adjusting his glasses, telling his dog she’s a good girl for staying out of the way. I’d be thinking about that stupid half marathon, and how losing ten pounds would sure help a lot.
A car drives by the parking lot entrance, and we all turn to look. And then I realize I’m sort of hoping he doesn’t show. I want to work out, I want to feel the burn, I want to be a little bit proud of myself. I also want to, well, not.
“God damn it,” the guy, the one who said he’d woken Dave up last week, mutters to humself. Then he smiles “Well, I guess I can always come back at noon.” He turns and wanders towards his car.
The other guy, the one with the roommate says, “Alright fellas.” He looks at his watch, smiles, shakes his head, and walks off too.
Me and the only other one remaining stand there for a few seconds. A moral victory. When Dave’s timing us on burpees and Russian kettle-bells, he never shouts. His voice is loud above the heavy metal blasting from the speakers, but he’s not screaming. You got this, he says. 15 more seconds, he says. You can do this, reach in. Last Thursday, when he did that, even though I was whipped, I managed a few more reps. Felt it all day Friday, but it felt good too.
I want to wait this out, but I don’t. I want to be here when he shows up, forgive him for being, despite a 400 pound bench press, only human. But I want to go home, have a Saturday, do nothing. My wife’s working, won’t be home until 5, so I mean: really do nothing.
I take a deep breath, look the other fella in the eye. “Monday, I guess.” He just smiles, nods, turns and walks to his car.
I decide to compromise. I ran here, so I’ll run back home too. I’m hoping Dave doesn’t have a hang over. But just in case, I’ll commiserate. I stop at the 7-11 on my way, grab a bag of onion potato chips and two Cokes. I plop in front of the TV, and before too long I’m sugar-and-grease queasy. A different kind of work out
The Mariners Lost Last Night
I can very much appreciate it if someone is not into sports. In and of themselves, most sports are pointless. They’re just entertainment, one choice in a slew of others—why watch a baseball game when one can watch one of a million TV shows on demand? Or read a book, or go for a walk, or sit in front of the computer and write a novel? And don’t get me started on how much those guys who throw a ball around for a few hours a day get paid. My point is: you’re not into sports? I get it, I accept it.
I used to be the same way, frankly, but for the past 10+ years I’ve lived in a city big enough to support a few major sports organization. And there’s an identity one has, living in a city, and rooting for the home team Not everyone in Seattle roots for the Mariners—we’re a fairly hipster town. But some of us do, and some of us do because we love where we live. Call it civic pride.
But the Mariners lost their second game of the season. No big deal though, right? It’s only game two out of a 162. And they won their first game! Still, if you’re not a sports fan, or if you’re not a baseball fan in particular, or if you don’t follow the Mariners, then you don’t know: already there’s rumblings.
When non baseball-fans think baseball, they think Yankees, maybe Red Sox, they think about the most recent world series winner (the San Francisco Giants). And, for the most part, these are winning teams. I’ll be blunt: they’re winners because they pay for the top talent.
The Mariners, finally, have started paying for top talent. Thanks to a loophole in the MLB profit-sharing rules, they had an extra 190 million to spend on guys like Nelson Cruz and Robinson Cunoe. The talk through all of spring training has been: the Mariners are the team to watch this year.
And that’s saying something, as the Mariners have not been to the playoffs since 2001. Last year, they were literally one-game away from making the playoffs. The very idea that the Mariners could be playing in October is a bit apocalyptic. People who live in Seattle, who have civic pride, who identify with the Mariners—all of us are tired of, but used to, our team losing.
Which is why, despite the season being only 1.2345679 percent complete (that’s the real number- baseball’s all about esoteric stats) we’re all a little anxious at this point. Yes, the Mariners won their first game (thanks in no small part to our Cy Young award-winning pitcher) but we got no production in that game from that new 190 million dollar talent we brought in. And none again last night. Are we doomed?
Another team people think about when they think baseball is the Cubs. The perennial losers. The last time the Cubs were in the world series, the Mariners weren’t even a team yet. Heck, the first MLB team Seattle ever had, the Pilots, wasn’t even a team yet. The Cubs have been to the World Series six times in the last 100 years and lost every time.
Is that to be Seattle’s fate? We lost last night—it’s really hard to think about anything else.