Advice From the Old Biker

I push the barbell above my chest, my physical catechism. The prayer of my body, recited four times weekly.

Three.

Two.

One.

I count down with my reps, because counting up makes my goal seem more difficult. Counting down to smaller numbers means, the iron weighs less.

That's what I tell myself.

I sit up on the bench to rest for a couple of minutes, and see a man seated across from me, dressed in black. He’s working out in skin-tight black jeans and construction boots. The sleeves of his Steve Miller t-shirt are torn off, revealing chunky, tanned biceps, flexing as he curls a dumbbell to his shoulder.

Curls. They are just about the most popular exercise in the gym, right after bench press. Everybody and their brother wants big arms. Go there on a weeknight, and a half-dozen fratboys will be giggling with their buddies in front of the mirrors, trying to grow twenty-inch pipes by lifting 25-pound dumbbells. Too bad they usually ignore the rest of their bodies.

The guy sees me looking. “Hey man,” he says.

“Hey.” I actually recognize him from before. He rides his motorcycle to the gym. I remember that because I have a bike as well. It's an unconscious thing; when you own one, you keep your eyes peeled for other riders, like you're in the Stonemasons with a secret handshake or something. I never come to the gym on it though, because I don’t want my leathers to get all sweaty after lifting weights. Looking at him in his silly outfit, I wonder if maybe his bike is his only vehicle. “Did you ride in today?”

“Yeah, man. It’s perfect weather out there, for once,” he says.

“What do you ride?”

The guy grins, his long Fu Manchu spreading into a brushy “M” on his lips. “It’s a Kawasaki Mean Streak. I just traded up, brand-new. Solo-seat…the pipes on it are like fucking cannons. Do you ride?”

“Yeah,” I say. I settle back under the barbell. I like my hands spaced wide for bench press. It works the pecs more that way. Big pecs, those are the glory muscles.

“That’s good…that’s really good,” he says, as though he just learned I’m studying for my MBA. He picks up his dumbbell and begins pumping away with it again. “I’ll tell you something, dude. I’ve been with a lot of women in my life. And along the way, every single one of ‘em let me down at one time or another.

“But my bike…all I ever had to do was treat it right, and it was always there for me. Yours will too, man...just keep it oiled up. Put a blanket on it in the winter, wipe the bugs off, keep ‘er clean…and your bike will last forever.

“Women, man…they come and they go, but you can ride that bike your whole life if you wanna. It’s never going to let you down,” he strains, close to the end of his set.

I notice the big hand with no wedding ring, and the trace of bitterness in his voice. The hard lines of his eyes, the silver hairs combed back through his mullet haircut.

I drum my fingers on the bar before I lift it off the rack, looking over at him. “I’ve been told that the way my bike vibrates, it’s like a rolling, 400-pound dildo. Why should I keep all that fun for myself?," I say.

“And my bike has a seat for two.”

He snorts laughter as his dumbbell clanks to the rubber floor.

“I know, man.”

Three.

Two.

One.