Mysteries

They have been screwing up the gym something spectacular, what with the skanky Vietnamese grocery upstairs catching fire the other night and a continuing influx of Treadmill Drudgery Machines for those unfortunates who think that a workout amounts to serving time. The serious weight end remains unscathed, so far.

Something disturbing had occurred in the matter of the hack sled.

We have a couple of these but my favorite is a forthright piece of old plate loaded equipment, kind of the reverse of my favorite of all seated leg press. The hack has a footplate at a 45 degree angle to the floor and a sled on that runs on rails contraposed to the footplate, buffered by shoulder pads that allow you to shove up against them without actual bruising. I have only dropped it on myself once.

Today, someone had loaded it with three wheels on either side — a total of 270 pounds, plus the weight of the sled — taken it all the way down to the bottom of its travel, and… gone somewhere. You have to grasp, this put the shoulder pads about thirty inches above the footplate, a distance that suggested the unhappy spectacle of a grown man being shot out of the thing face first (directly into the mirror, that would have been) like a watermelon seed.

The mirror looked undamaged, but human tissue is yielding, after all.

“This didn’t end well for someone,” I remarked to the guy doing front squats off the rack next to me, before stripping the sled so I could huck it back up to a starting position.

In the immortal verse of Daniel Cainer: “Oy, gewalt! Oy, weh’s mir! We will never really know what happened here…” This goes in the mystery file with the emptied and carefully recorked bottle of Two-Buck Chuck that the Engineer finds in the men’s locker room every Sunday morning. I hope the same person isn’t involved.

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