The Fog



A grey sky on a cold day. The gym door closed, but unlocked and open for the world.  The loading dock door rattles open as I use my body to pull, my butt as a lever, and my arms like cables. Watching the chain beside me slither like a snake, guiding the flexible door past my head and peaking high above the gym roof.  A breeze from the outside fog falls to my feet, gasping its last swirl before falling to its death.  My Adidas sweat suit acts as armor, keeping me safe and warm, focused and protected.  A fanny pack full of the same dreams, just located in a new pocket. The zipper cold from the gym air.  My hands shaky with nerves, as the smell from left over knee wraps causes pain to my nose, and a slight twitch to the face.  A familiar smell in an all too familiar world.  Standing with new shoes, on a path of old, leading to a platform of new.  A cold gym is the best, for cold makes sweat dry, making the bar stick well on the athlete's throat, keeping the athlete's elbows raised for gold, and out of reach from injury. The cold gym makes the hot coffee fresh, cooling down yesterday's struggles, and focusing on today's goals.  My sweatpants low on my waist, as I look forward to them rising higher and higher, as the years move on, and the time ticks round.  Hopefully one day my pants will be covering my head, as I poke two holes to see my athlete's achieve more than I ever did.

Small chatter as the coffee machine in the front room drips, some stretch, while others sit.  A room full of rookie athletes ready to bleed experience, some stretching and rolling, some doing nothing but drinking coffee while all are reflecting on the journey ahead.  Reflecting is the best warm up an athlete can do. Leaving behind the past, and focusing on the future is a champion's best asset.  A mental warm up is what comes in handy, when a hard training session lays quietly in front.  Calm and collect, deadly and destructive, all while being necessary and life changing.  I watch the minds of the young roll like hills. The grassy meadows they still have to climb, the burnt forests they will get to know. Side by side, platform by platform, resting bench to resting bench, coach's eye, to a weightlifter's feet, a rhythm lifter amongst a strength lifter, all fill the cold foggy gym with different philosophies amongst millions of ideas.  One must choose why they are lifting before becoming a champion, once this is established, the athlete will grow and grow fast, running full sprint to the bar in front of them, ready to meet hell before achieving heaven. 

I cross the gym floor with a limp, as I make my way to the fan, facing its wide circular back to the outside mist.  A white world surrounding a dusty gym full of broken hearts, and broken bars.  I turn the fan on even though the cold makes my finger tips numb.  A fan must be turned on at all times no matter what the weather may be.  The sound of the fan alone eases a person's mood, humming soft sounds of comfort, as the skeletons lay to sleep.  A turning fan is water to skin, as the cold moves swiftly around your body, as the athlete moves fast around the bar.  I turn the fan on for comfort, white noise, to feel the outside world as I live in the inside of a gym. 

This gym is cold this morning, and first practice is always painful, but once the athletes get moving, everything makes complete sense. 

Cold Gym 2016