Well, middle aged, anyway.
He was sitting on the Nitro abdominal machine, one of those type where you hold handles at shoulder level and hook your feet under pads to do a counterweighted upright ab crunch. We have only one of those left; I like the control it gives you, plus the fact you don’t have the 15 pound weight of your head flailing away at the top of your spine with every rep of a rectus abdominis contraction. I don’t do front abs from a lying down position any more. Just vertical, or inverted.
He kept on sitting there.
I came back a couple of sets later. He was still sitting.
Oozing false bonhomie I asked: “Have I got time to work one in or are you about to hit it again?”
“Are you resting long enough I have time for a set?”
“Uh… I have two more reps.”
A rep is one contraction. He looked reasonably healthy and I hoped he was not so feeble that this was all he could manage at one time.
“Repetitions?” I said. He looked at me blankly. “Just give me a few minutes,” he tried despairingly. The last time I tried to explain the concept of “working in” to someone she got all huffy and stomped away; I just was not in the mood for another one of those. “OK, repeat away,” I said with a manic grin that was all that stood between him and evisceration. He kept on sitting there.
I wasn’t in the mood to explain myself to police. It just takes up too much time. He was coming close to evening the odds though.
When I finally found the machine vacant it looked as if he had loaded it up to something like bodyweight. Another one of these frantic ab-crunchers who thinks the key to life’s problems is an abdominal wall so short and bunched that he will be walking with his head forward like a hood ornament in another few years.
You can’t cure stupid.