Release those endorphins! ..... and those bowels. 

I had an amusing day at the gym recently when a random but very fit looking young man who appeared to be harbouring a secret desire to pummel an unsuspecting and slightly overweight member of the public into submission handed me an impromptu challenge.

 I had never seen the guy before in my life, but he stepped onto the treadmill next to mine in 24 Hour Fitness and wordlessly threw down the gauntlet. The whole affair started innocently enough as I stepped onto a free machine and began an easy loping run to warm up. Two minutes after stepping onto it however, a much taller, leaner, and frankly far more energetic looking young chap about 10 years my junior got onto the treadmill next to mine. Nothing strange about that, but he then proceeded to ape my movements speed identically, and when I sped things up a few minutes later copied the exact same speed and elevation of my machine. At this point I gave the dominant male to my left a quick questioning glance, and he inclined his head slightly towards me in a movement which seemed to wordlessly state "Now we must battle for ownership of the virile females in this building." 

Ten minutes later I had ramped things up and added another kilometre an hour to the speed, and my unnamed challenger proceeded to do the exact same ten seconds later, clearly the gloves were off. My would-be destroyer had ceased any pretence of coincidence, and this sudden and unexpected attack went on for another 30 minutes of soul crushing effort. Regardless of the settings I was choosing on what was supposed to be a relaxing run, my leaner, obviously fitter tormentor would match me on both speed and elevation. And so began an unspoken battle of wills, where neither man spoke, but both silently acknowledged they were savagely butting heads in a battle that first began when mankind's ancestors first crawled from the primordial ooze eons ago.

At the 40 minute mark I was running up a treadmill that was so savagely inclined it was like a rubber version of the steep side of K2, and I was smashing my feet so hard into the treadmill that my teeth were threatening to vibrate out of my skull, but still he pursued me. My shirt was so wet it looked like I had been blasted off my feet with a riot hose before entering the gym, and my already bushy eyebrows were proving inefficient at keeping the sweat from my painfully itchy eyeballs. At this point, heart hammering against my ribcage but unwilling to do the smart thing and concede, I attempted to send my mind to a better place, took my eyes off the timer, and grit my teeth against the pain. Approximately 4 and a half minutes later, with a strange tingling up my spine and an odd buzzing sound reverberating around my skull, my foe finally gave his head a slight shake, and then knocked 5 or 6 kilometres an hour off his own machine. I carried on as best I could, desperate to try and show that I was above such a childish display of machismo. Surely because he instigated the whole thing I could plead ignorance? I could simply pretend that I regularly went for a leisurely jog and proceeded to run at such a pace that my shins were blasted to bits and I thought I was going to defecate in my shorts?

It was no good however, and I was forced to knock the speed down to a brisk walk only 30 seconds after him as I had started to see stars blinking across my vision and feared losing consciousness at great speed. This would be less of an issue if we were running outside, because such an act here would see my vomit and blood soaked body thrown across the gym and into the free weights area forty feet away. When I slowed my machine down, the sadist to my left gave me a grin, shook his head slightly, and then stopped his machine. He grabbed his towel and his keys, leapt from the machine in a sprightly fashion, and made his way towards the exact with a fair sheen of sweat but looking none the worse for wear. 

 The same could not be said for me however, and things went from bad to worse as soon as I stopped the treadmill a few minutes later. Despite feeling merely light headed and a little bit sick as I got off the machine, I suddenly felt extremely ill when I stood upon still earth once more. I somehow began staggering while simultaneously looking like I was clutching a pencil between my arse cheeks, and made my way to the changing room. Not wanting to faint or vomit in-front of any of the other men present, I made for the bathroom as swiftly as my recently liquified kneecaps would allow. Mercifully it was empty, and on shaking legs I locked myself into a cubicle and proceeded to collapse next to the porcelain and spewed acid and bile into the pan. I then started shaking uncontrollably, and bizarrely, found myself immensely drowsy. I drifted in and out of consciousness for about ten minutes before I finally had the strength to operate the flimsy handle on the door.

As I passed the large mirrors on the way to the exit on unsteady legs, I caught a glimpse of my pallid, green tinged reflection, and found myself wondering two things. First of all, if I was the victor of this impromptu battle, why did I feel so demoralized and dejected? And secondly, if exercising is apparently so good for the health, why did I look like a recently reanimated corpse? 

I never look that rough when I'm sat in the pub.....