It's the last rep. That last rep that might kill me. But I made it through 39, so fuck it.
Forty. I did forty and this is number forty, after which I'm done. They said that it was too much, when I picked up the heaviest weight I could find. Too heavy for you, they said. Look at you. You'll get injured. Use the machines instead like everybody else. But I picked up that weight and I lifted it.
This place is full of strangers now. The walls have been repainted. I barely recognise it. Corporate looking men are watching me with diminishing interest. It's a look I avoided for so long. I'm safe here for now, for just this final moment while I make this last rep in my set.
The weight is heavy and I'm older. The bar is rough and my hands are bleeding. I can see the outline of my form in the dirty old mirror. In the gloom. I can feel the medication coursing through my veins. I feel good.
But I no longer feel that rush of excitement. No more the pride or lusts of youth when the bar was shiny and new. There is only a crazed determination to finish my set and settle into the changing rooms.
One more. Just one more. Then I can rest. Then I can retire. And after a hot shower, who knows what I might be capable of.
Happy 2024, whatever your goals.