Character study

Gotta tell you about some of the characters at my gym.  It's in the heart of Studio City, so there's a lot of industry types around; tough-looking old guys who look like former boxers (or actors who play former boxers or mafia heavies), diminutive blondes of indeterminate age, buff trainers and goofballs.  They mostly keep to themselves; hey, we're all just there to work out, we're all a little sweaty and dishevelled, we're all checking out our form in the mirror to a greater or lesser extent.  And then there's the Chatty Brit.  I see her there every time, on the cardio equipment, giving her lungs a workout.  Chat chat chat.  Non-stop.  Chatting to the person next to her, chatting to someone walking past.  Sometimes she finds herself with a temporary absence of audience and she looks around, like a meer cat, eagerly seeking out eye contact with her next set of ears.  No mean feat while keeping up a cracking pace on the treadmill.

Sometimes a little old man or little old lady will wander through with a little wheelie gym bag, looking a little bit lost on their way to the change room.  I've never seen them wander back out again; whether this is because it takes them so long to change and make their way out to the cardio room, or they just get completely lost on the bowels of the building (there is a rather intimidating, underground cave-like weights training room into which I've never ventured beyond the stairs before scurrying back up into the light), I guess I'll never know.  There is a tiny, white-haired lady - let's call her Birdie, for that is what she brings to mind - who I've seen a few times, bright eyed and just as talkative as the Chatty Brit.  Birdie, however, doesn't wait to catch your eye before she starts talking to you, she just commences with whatever is on her mind.  On my way out of the change room one morning, she started telling me all about her exercise routine.  Today she spent 20 minutes on the treadmill, but yesterday she did some light weights and is feeling a bit stiff, so just the treadmill today, but not too fast, she likes to come three times a week and on the other days she goes for a walk...

The guy on the desk is another kind of character.  He's a black dude in his 40s or possibly 50s.  It's hard to tell; afterall, black don't crack and he never even cracks a smile.  It's like he can't believe he's been reduced to the indignity of sitting on a reception desk and he's annoyed at everyone who comes in because that's yet another person to witness him in this humble position.  And then there's big buff Mike, the friendly personal trainer, who is also in his 40s and who loves to rant about the young guys who want to look as fit as him without doing the work.  The regular attendees of my weekend step class are another breed.  I think I'm the only one under 40, possibly the only one under 50; they've been doing this class for 15 years or more and woe betide anyone who attempts to take their spot in the room.  They're a friendly bunch who cheerfully acknowledge their obsessive need to stand in the same place in the room week in week out. 

Lastly, there's the meaty dude with a gormless grin and a double chin who just has to say hello to everyone; he quite gregarious, let's call him Greg.  He doesn't seem to actually work out much, he just stands around the cardio equipment, trying unsuccessfully to chat up the chicks.  Most just keep their eyes on the video screens and their iPods plugged in until he waves down an ill-prepared woman, or gets lucky with the Chatty Brit.