Can Ban Save Pinnacle?

Health experts are more or less convinced that exercise in varying forms including regular trips to the gym tends to be good for your brain, except when they tell you that regular trips to the gym is called bigorexia, in which case they're more or less convinced you have a severe mental disorder.

Now, I know, I know, it really doesn't matter one way or the other as far as gymmers are concerned. Work out regulars will hit the gym anyway, and the average amount of thought that a gymmer assigns to this kind of discussion, to the best of my knowledge, is this - “Eh?”

In fact, I'm increasingly led to believe that that's pretty much the average amount of thought gymmers assign to ANYTHING.

I should probably be careful here, because I personally think that the bicep-pinching crowds display varying levels of stupidity. On the one end, we've serious regular gymmers, those who visit their friendly neighborhood gym, who cannot under any circumstances count to twelve, and typically cannot process thought streams more complicated than “energy drink.”

You think I'm kidding. You think the anabolic steroids local gymmers openly inject don't mingle with the blood cells, climb up the cerebellum, and harden into a paste-like substance around the left frontal lobe, which handles language, until all the gymmers have left, vocabulary-wise, are 143 words, 11 of which are different spellings of the word “push,” and 24 of which aren't technically words, such as “aaaagh” and “hhhaaaaaa.”

And to that, let me assure you - it's true. Visit your local gym.

Mine plays music comprised almost solely of artists apparently under steroid-rage semi-rhythmically throwing metal plates at their bass guitars. The total hygiene involved in using the flat bench consists solely of spreading the sweat and rust across the bench by wiping it semi-thoroughly with your hands. The mortality rate for members is approaching critical, with members getting their ribs crushed for no apparent reason, except of course if you count lifters-with-the-IQ-of-soy-trying-to-lift-too-much-without-other-people-around as a plausible explanation. If it keeps up, we'll be extinct by 2007.

So yes, we're stupid. And yes, dammit, we're well aware we're stupid.

We recognize we're stupid as our hands shake, as if in an epileptic fit, as we lift weights that could kill us above our heads. We're pretty sure we're stupid when we scream helpful reminders at each other, primarily, “PUSH,” as if at any given point, the person actually doing the lifting will suddenly think he's in Tahiti and forget to push metal plates the size of manhole covers. We especially recognize we're stupid when we start listening to the tune of the steroid-rage guys beating their guitars with plates.

But stupid though we are, there are a few creatures dumber and less productive than even we can be, such as Dung Beetles, crocodile-eating Anacondas, Yacht-club members, presidents, vice presidents, and Pinnaclers.

Okay, not just Pinnaclers. The Fitness First crowd, the Gold's Gym crowd, any group of people who work out in gym hotels, and generally anyone who works out in clubby gyms that sport rocket-science treadmills.

Now why would I say such a thing? What could possibly drive me to believe that clubby gym members have the lowest possible IQ that could sustain life, lower even than starfish, and we're talking a creature that technically, doesn't sport a brain.

If you've ever been to these gyms, you'd understand. You'd see other gymmers stretch, plop onto a treadmill and press Quick Start, after which they'd fill out relevant information about their work out capabilities, including their weight, age, mental state, number of work outs performed, favorite RNB artist, and cell phone numbers, and then, after the treadmill makes sure it can contact them days later to report findings of arterial bleeding, the treadmill chugs to life, and the gymmers start the tedious process of... staying still.

Okay, not still. They move enough to watch CNN. And their feet kind of shake, jelly-like, until you're pretty sure at some point that they're almost – walking. That's right. They somehow managed to find the energy to locate a gym, covered an incredible amount of ground getting there, managed to stretch, and the most physical reminder they're going to experience for that trouble is the neck strain from watching global events unfold.

To be fair, there are other forms of physical activity in these gyms, the bulk of which include

> Speed texting

> Badly copying aerobics instructors, who are badly teaching you new ways to get tired without ever breaking a sweat

> Discussing philosophy, by which I mean TV

> Flirting with co-gymmers with the collective communicative skills of tofu

> Pressing the Quick Start button, which was apparently made by a person who did not understand the concept

Every now and then, there'd be gymmers who actually work out, but they have to deal with the facts; getting the treadmill to work, and then not actually using it, is the predominant concept of a session in those places.

Enter Ban. He's enrolled in Pinnacle. He's a dead-serious lifter, benching over 150 percent his weight, and used to roughing it out in gyms with the rust-concentration of three sunken Titanics.

Is he going to catch the speed texting flu? Will he use plates to fulfill their actual purpose, thereby defying all conventions set up in clubby gyms? Will he get the treadmills to work?

Let's all stand-by and send our best wishes Pinnacle's way, as Ban takes the on the rocket-science treadmills, all without question asking him for his favorite RNB artist.