The Gym Situation

I was talking on the phone today (May have been yesterday, things get hazy when the phone goes off during a nap) and while I was talking to Dad about the gym I realized I hadn't said anything on here about the rusted out dungeon whose corroding walls are graced so often by my expletives. It's 2 in the morning here, but thanks to my ridiculous class schedule I'm in no rush to get to sleep. So, with the sweet sounds of Jimmy Page's guitar wailing through my headphones, I'm going to write a bit.

A few days after arriving in Uruguay I set off in search of a gym, as you may recall from my previous blogs. My findings were less than reassuring. There have to be a few good gyms in Montevideo, where do all the big guys train? Oh wait, there aren't any big guys. I spend about an hour a day walking the streets to and from class and might see someone bigger than me once or twice a week. I've been told the people in Peru and Paraguay and what not are noticeably smaller as they're indios-Indians. My house mother called me Gulliver a few days ago but I can't wait to wreak havoc on the tiny people in these other countries, Godzilla might be more like it.

Now my search for gyms has led me to four respectable institutions, including one that apparently was only for females ("I can't join? Seguro?"). Of the four one seemed decent, unfortunately it was staffed by one of the first bitchy females-or people in general-I've met here. Since I keeps it reeaall I muttered something obscene in English before continuing my search.

Eventually I ended up at Defensor Sporting Club. The familiar purple and white badge on the sign seemed so comforting (Fredy, Gustavo's dad, was the goalie for the legendary 1976 Defensor squad). I figured I might have some street cred here, and the prices weren't awful. On top of that it's got an outdoor soccer field and an indoor court for Futbol Cinco. SIGN ME UP.

What they didn't mention was that the soccer facilities seem to constantly be occupied by small children or a group of some real winners. To quote 'I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell' : [they seem] like the type of guy who would profess his love for a girl in spray paint across a highway overpass. I bet his busy schedule includes screaming into his pillow and crying himself to sleep because his life sucks." This place really attracts a lower breed of human.

The human mind has a great capacity to reason with itself, to believe what it wants. For example, my cursory inspection of the weight room. I'd imagine it went something like this. "Hey, they don't have a rack of dumbells. But..they do have a bunch of little handles that you get to fasten weights to, COOL!" Honestly, I have no idea why I thought this 100 square foot pit of rusted out weights and shaky benches would suffice. I was a bit too optimistic, hoping for a sort of old school Venice Beach vibe. What I got was more along the lines of weightlifting for the geriatric set.

Some pearls from my training log:

Incline Dumbell Press:
"35kx...Dumbell BROKE, loud noise, stares."
"Dips-note:Wobbly. Feels like an Earthquake"
"Gym closed Saturday and Sunday, sweet"
"Dips(week 2)-x8 reps,
x F*#& this, 0, leaving"


In other news. I have been dubbed Richard Phelps by two separate people in the past 72 hours, we'll see if it sticks. I figure I've got a few more weeks before I become so catabolic they change the nickname to Richard Simmons. I'm playing one of the most catabolic sports known to man. Not soccer, cross-country running. In theory I AM on a soccer team, but it seems more like a "running team with a soccer problem." Four training sessions in and I've touched a ball for about thirty minutes, and I'm looking forward to taking an endurance test tomorrow. Last Wednesday I passed up Azabache-apparently a really cool disco-to be a good little athlete. I'm checking it out after training tomorrow I think so we'll see how that goes.