A geographic cataclysm has occurred in San Francisco and I wasn’t even aware of it. Apparently the high country of the Sierra Nevada Mountains has moved to within a short walking distance of the city. That has to be the reason so many people riding the San Francisco Municipal Railway are sporting backpacks that bulge as far to the rear of them as Aunt Tillie’s ass.
What can they have in those backpacks that, when moving to the right or left, function to knock down hapless passengers adjacent? My partner Keith McCullar and I use public transportation to commute back and forth and never carry any more than the occasional saleroom catalog or magazine to peruse at home, and keys and wallet on our person. Believe me, my wallet is never very fat, so doesn’t protrude far enough to ever be a danger to anyone.
Of course, none of these people are going hiking, in spite of their ostensibly packing survival gear. But a lot of it is sport, with a number of them presumably gym members packing their kit, and ample objets de toilette for afterward.
Mind you, I wouldn’t criticize anyone who sought to exercise to improve health and enhance one’s overall quality of life. Although swatted with backpacks I find a detriment to my own quality of life, it is a minor one, and anything that should eventually function to lower health care costs for the general population and eliminate the visual eyesore of the porcine from my field of vision is okay with me.
We did, Keith and me, not so very long ago spend a bit of time regularly at the gym. As Keith was about to turn 40, he was determined to lose a few pounds and get into better shape. Our physician at the time had counseled us both that losing weight at 40 is do-able, and nigh unto impossible at 50. Sage advice- a decade on, I can testify that our doctor clearly knew what he was talking about in the weight loss department.
Keith engaged a personal trainer upon the recommendation of an erstwhile acquaintance who, as it happened, trained with the trainer the hour before our appointed time. Keith and I dutifully went to the gym four nights a week- an hour to train and an extra 40 minutes or so to walk on the treadmill for cardio conditioning. We did this for the best part of a year. Grueling it wasn’t, but I can’t say that either of us ever got into it. That is one of the things that pass my understanding, how many people, particularly men- not just gay men, but it seemed as though the gym was replete with them, the storied gym bunnies- who make going to workout their whole lives. We couldn’t do it.
We would have been content to keep this regimen up, I suppose, but one day Keith happened to notice how our acquaintance was achieving some, not spectacular, but significant change in the bulk and muscle definition department. He was progressing quickly from the gym bunny to the muscle bunny category. Keith inquired of our friend, who we knew was working out no more than we were, what accounted for this, and was told that our trainer was juicing him with human growth hormone for muscle bulk and testosterone for muscle definition. No kidding. We were appalled and quit the gym, and the trainer, that very evening.
Since that time, what? four years ago or so, I suppose Keith and I have gained a little weight- no euphemism here, just a little weight. We walk about 2 miles a day or so, taking the circuitous route to the Muni station for the ride to and from work. Strength training? If you knew how often we move furniture in our galleries, you wouldn’t ask that question. And we both feel good. Oh, and we do get some exercise dodging the backpacks of the non-recalcitrant gym bunnies.