Sports Clubs

I've already mentioned my brush with the authorities at my local sports club, but I've just realised that I have so far completely neglected to mention another unusual (for an old worlder, that is) aspect of American sports/fitness clubs, namely the changing rooms.

Although I have been to only two such clubs, and cannot therefore claim to have sampled the full gamut of US sport and leisure facilities, I did notice something that appears to be a common feature: apart from the usual lockers, benches, showers and toilets, the standard furnishings seem to include one or more huge flatscreen TVs (not necesssarily set to sports channels) and large leather sofas/armchairs, seats that are invariably taken by elderly men dressed not in sports gear but in their everyday clothes, men who spend hours simply chatting to fellow loafers in what is, after all, a horribly testosterone- and sweat-infused atmosphere, clearly with no intention of engaging in any sporting activity.

One nice touch for those like me who inevitably forget their toiletries is that sports clubs provide ample supplies of towels, shaving foam (though no razors), shower gel, hand cream and the like. Having said that, I have twice caught one old man taking one of these complimentary aerosol cans and liberally spraying the top of his head, the upper sides of both arms, his feet and his backside with what looked like deodorant, but may have been after-shave.

And these guys treat me like I'm the weird one!

Fitness

Once again, America has the last laugh.

I may have scoffed at the idea of treadmills and the associated almost Buddhist notion of running yet not advancing, but I am now having to eat some very humble pie.

Faced with the twin onslaught of eating too much (pie or otherwise), which has more than made up the kilos I lost so easily over the summer, and the fact that it's simply too cold (-8°C on a good day) and dangerous to go running outside (sharing slushy roads with oversized cars is no fun), I am going to have to throw in the towel - or rather wrap it round my neck - and head down to the gym for what is literally an exercise in futility.