The Gym at 9 a.m.

Otherwise known as the Goldilocks Time.

The bankers, identified by their loud, cracking joints and padel injuries, have just left. And it gives you 90 solid minutes before the pensioners start riding in like a posse on mobility scooters. 90 minutes of near emptiness in the halls.

The cleaner

As you walk in, you’re invariably greeted by the cleaner. A tall, slender, man; covered head to toe in tattoos and piercings. One ear holds a safety pin, the other a small silver crucifix. He’s the kind of person you have a hard time placing. His home could house anything from a wife, three kids, and a golden retriever; to a bald eagle statue clutching a machine gun in one wing and a hammer and sickle in the other.

Despite his Nicholas Cage meets Hulk Hogan aesthetic, he is unfailingly polite. The kind of guy who holds the door open for you AND inquires about your day, while also caring about your answer. He’ll pause mid-mop, lean on the handle like Marie Kondo in a Willy Wonka cosplay, and give you his undivided attention.

The receptionist

Continuing into the workout hall, you meet the receptionist who has just finished off her early morning workout. Her long, amber hair reaches down to the floor like an art deco wedding veil, swaying as she walks with the kind of grace that feels both effortless and wildly impractical. Her voice, serene like the breeze of cool air on a late spring morning: at first awakening, then soothing. She doesn’t command attention, she invites it.

She’s the quiet person who could talk you down when your mind’s racing faster than you can keep up with, not because she knows what to say necessarily, but because she won’t shy away from saying something. She knows when to crack a joke and when to just sit there, quiet and steady. There’s nothing polished or rehearsed about her, no customer service jargon. She’ll just offer you a hi, no expectations attached, and that’s just enough to brighten your day.

The powerlifter

As you leave the front desk, the presence of the powerlifter becomes clear. His legs are so thick they make regular pants obsolete, rumour has it he wears custom-tailored curtains. A cloud of chalk is always following him, think Charlie Brown's Pig-Pen meets coke addict.

He’s a traditional kind of man, logs his workouts in ink on an old notepad, those things made from trees that people used before windows. He wears headphones from a distant past, from the days before they played music. Just the sound of his own suffering is sufficient to fuel his rep. 

The receptionist once told me there is no membership connected to him. He’s just always been there.

Amidst the quiet mornings, as time passes, a community begins to foster. I don’t know anyone else’s name. The only conversation I’ve had with a couple of them is “Hey, you using this?”. But these people are the only ones who have seen my sweat drenched, makeup-less, hairstyle of a caveman in a wind turbine, authentic self; without a facade of who I want to be. There’s a silent recognition, stripped of pretense or judgment, that everyone is trying. Trying to be better than they currently are, which entails the awareness that, unlike in instagram posts, no one is perfect.

So if I’m there dispirited, heart broken, void of the ability to do more than two exercises before calling the day quits. No one will give you a condescending side eye. No one cares about your weights, waistline, or how often or long your workouts are. You’re there, and that’s enough; or you're not, and that’s okay.