Kevin Page: Dancing on my own... or so I thought

Kevin Page would rather walk 10 kilometres on a treadmill than watch the telly at 3am.

OPINION

Not that long ago, I was out of town on business and took myself off to a local gym for a late-night session.

It was one of those 24-hour places. If you are a gym aficionado, I’m sure you know what I mean. If not, it’s an open all-hours set-up. Ideal for those of us who have awkward working hours and/or can’t sleep and would rather walk 10 kilometres on a treadmill than watch the telly at 3am.

I’m doing the gym thing as a result of a recent health test. I’ve got some rust in some hard-to-get places and I need an oil change. By all accounts, it will also help if I can pack on a bit of lean muscle. I had some 35 years ago. I’ve just got to find it again.

Anyway.

There I was, at some ungodly hour, fumbling with my special access card at the front door, and I could hear some strange noises coming from inside.

Normally, there’s music playing in places like this.

Most times, it’s the boom, boom, boom variety. Designed to get your blood pumping. Occasionally, somebody with, shall we say, “interesting” tastes grabs control of the doofer thing that decides what music gets played.

That’s when the fun starts.

On this particular early, early morning, I come through the door in the foyer and am greeted by the sound of Celine Dion belting out the theme song from the Titanic movie.

Now, I say Celine was belting it out. And she was. What makes this particular tale a bit interesting is she was getting a fair amount of vocal assistance from a significantly muscled gent who was posing – bodybuilder style - in front of a fully mirrored wall.

He and I were the only ones in the gym. To say we both got a surprise is a bit of an understatement.

There was one of those “What the...?” moments before laughter erupted from us both. Then he offered me an explanation. It was - as I’m sure you can imagine, because I couldn’t possibly begin to make sense of what I’d just seen - very welcome.

It seems my new mate is relatively new to the bodybuilding/sculpting game and has future competitions in mind. He comes to the gym at 3am because it’s quiet and he can work on some routines. He’s been using the music to assist with his timing.

For instance, as the Celine Dion standard gradually builds to a crescendo, he gradually moves through his poses, with the high point in the song being his final all-conquering pose.

I have to admit it made sense. I was less sure about the sing-along side of it.

As if sensing my unease, he explains it’s simply a release of endorphins, those feel-good chemicals inside the body that come rushing to the surface and, apparently, make you want to sing at the top of your lungs like a tiny French-Canadian woman. Go figure.

I wished him well in his endeavours as I started up my treadmill. The body truly is a remarkable thing, I thought to myself.

Fast-forward to this past week and I’m at a new gym. I’m here because I’m doing a bit of rehabilitation.

In my attempts to pack on a bit of lean muscle, I’ve gone and done what I always do. Gone hard at it. Set impressive personal bests and taken home multiple first prizes for multiple events in my age group in our family each time I go to the gym.

Unfortunately, I’ve ended up with overuse injuries and have been forced to cut back and enter a period of rehab. I’ve also had to declare myself unavailable for the Paris Olympics.

My new gym caters a bit more for the ageing generation. A bit more warm Milo and easy listening sounds than protein shake and heavy metal/rock, if you get my drift.

Luckily, it’s also a 24-hour establishment, and there I was the other day, an hour or so before Sparrow Fart, and I had the whole place to myself.

I’d been going half an hour or so. Bit of treadmill. Some light weights. Had a go on a few machines I wouldn’t normally get to use. I was feeling pretty good.

And just as those damn endorphins started waking up and doing their morning calisthenics, the music on the sound system changed.

I couldn’t resist it. I figured if Paper Lace wanted to whistle and sing Billy, Don’t be A Hero, then I’d give them some help.

For the next few minutes, as I ambled between a couple of the machines I joined in. At the top of my lungs.

There’s a bit in the middle of the song where they whistle and a bit with a woman’s voice. There’s even a bit with a few super cool guitar chords. Well, they were super-cool in the early ‘70s.

Naturally I played them all, on air guitar. Did the whistling. Sang the woman’s part. All in front of the big mirror on the wall.

At the end of the song, applause broke out. I half imagined myself, guitar strapped around my neck, thanking the audience before introducing members of the band.

Then I realised the clapping was coming from inside the gym.

More particularly, it was coming from the two ladies on the exercycles, hidden away over in the corner behind the big weight machine. The two ladies who had been there about an hour, unseen by me, and who had caught the entire performance. The two ladies who were now laughing their heads off.

I could feel myself turning red.

I puffed out my chest and tried to suck in my belly as far as I could without passing out from lack of oxygen.

Something told me they might struggle to believe it was all down to the endorphins and I was practicing for an upcoming bodybuilding event.