©2009 Full Circle Magazine.
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clark’s lore
Fit for life!
by Grant Clark
I am not entirely sure what cholesterol is but
what I do know is that unlike gold doubloons
it’s not something you want a lot of. Unless
it’s the good kind, which aside from totally
confusing me, then raises the question of
whether or not there are such things as bad
gold doubloons.
The point being that in an effort to apparently
out-run bad cholesterol, my wife, The Lovely Jacs
(‘TLJ’), has me on a rigorous new-and-improved
exercise regime. Not being one to exercise any
more than the law requires me to, I didn’t exactly
take to this regime (I believe Saddam Hussein’s
stint in office was also referred to as a regime) like
a duck to water. In my case it’s been a bit more like
a duck to a kitchen full of French chefs mumbling
something about “too much orange juice and no
idea what to do with it”. Aside from taking umbrage
at the fact that TLJ would think that I needed to
exercise in the first place, I have always had very
little vision for parading around in one of those
hoity-toity muscley-people gyms covered in
spandex from head to toe. As far as I am
concerned spandex should be a life-sentence not a
fashion statement.
This being the prevailing attitude in our lounge, it
was then with a sense of some shock that I
discovered that TLJ had signed me up for a gym
membership. It was presented in the form of a gift,
and accepted as one, right up until I realised that I
was paying for it. After much persuasion and the
threat of a knee to the groin, I finally agreed to
accompany TLJ to the gym. As fortune would have
it my very first visit to gym coincided with TLJ
going to her favourite Kata Box class and so,
refusing to let her out of my sight for a second, lest
some weirdo in spandex abscond with me, I
followed her into the rapidly-filling class despite her
protestations that I might want to start with
something a little easier, like the juice-bar. Never
one to listen to reason and more importantly not
wanting to be left alone in the bizarre new and
colourful world I found myself in, I took up my
space alongside TLJ on the floor and, to her
disgust, scratched my bum while she and the rest
of the gymites limbered up.
The less said about my performance in the class
the better, but despite my performance and
misgivings it actually turned out to be quite an
interesting experience and so, like Governor
Schwarzenegger, I have been back. While my lack
of co-ordination hasn’t allowed me to move my
arms and my feet at the same time, I have still
been very busy – at the juice bar. I think it would
be no understatement to say that gym is to a
Zoologist what a pile of cow poop is to a dung
beetle. I’m not saying I am the next Dian Fossey,
but I think it’s fair to say that the time I have spent
at the juice-bar watching gym classes does
bear a striking similarity to the time Dian spent
in the habitat of her beloved gorillas. So far my
studies have revealed that every gym class has
a clear structure, a hierarchy if you will. Certain
roles are always filled, albeit by different people
in different classes. Here follows my zoological
assessment of the average gym class...
First of all, and not because she is the most
important but purely because she is always
first, there is Ultra Competitive Girl. This class
of primate is particularly easy to spot because,
to the incredible annoyance of everyone in the
class, she is the one who is ... or rather has to,
must, has no choice but to ... do every
movement a split second before anyone else.
Yay! The winner!
Never far away from her but clearly lower on
the pecking order, is of course Clueless Girl
who, despite having done the class every day
for the last 1 000 years, still has absolutely no
idea what is going on and is, consequently and
perpetually, a second behind everyone else.
While Clueless Girl and Ultra Competitive
Girl are fairly innocuous troupe members,
there are less-cherished members. Sweaty
Guy is clearly the outcast that nobody can
seem to get rid of. Sweaty Guy is easy to spot
because, as his name suggests, he is usually
covered in a sheen of sweat. He is also
usually the guy with the most space round him
in the class because every time he swings an
arm or kicks out a leg he sprays anyone within
a 2m radius with his foul secretion of doom.
This is, apparently, how he marks his territory.
It appears to work.
The lowest form of life in any troupe is of
course Accompanying Girlfriend Man who
makes an appearance from time-to-time and
takes on a different form in every class. He
is usually found hanging around at the
fringes of the troupe, too nervous to join the
troupe-proper, and spends the entire class
bounding the wrong way or into the mirror or
person in front of him while cursing his
girlfriend under his breath for her flippant
“Its easy and you’ll love it!” comment an
hour or so before the class.
Other members of the troupe include:
Fashion Girl – in her smashing new designer
togs; Super Camp Man – who everyone
wishes would stop treating gym class as his
personal “I am out of the closet and lovin’ it!”
show; Blood Red Beetroot Girl – no
explanation required, and of course, what
class would be complete without the ever-
mysterious Gas Marvel who is never
identified and yet always there. Believe me,
you haven’t jumped to the left until you have
jumped to the left into one of Gas Marvel’s
little gems.
As far as I can see all that seems to be
missing is the Silverback, the big kahuna
who doesn’t really do much leading but who
sits around all day doing nothing other than
eat, scratch inappropriately and hoot
derisively at the rest of the troupe who are
at the very least actually doing something. I
haven’t seen this lazy lout yet about the gym
but rest assured I will keep my place at the
juice bar and will not relinquish it until I see
this reclusive lout – I just hope there are
enough muffins to see me through.
John Gillie Bannatyne
September 2009 Vol6 No9
