He sat back in the brown leather armchair, taking in the soft lighting and muted colours of his surroundings in all of their pristine, laminated-floored glory.  The powers-that-be had obviously gone to some effort in providing comfort for their victims and he appreciated the effort, he really did. It was just that…well, relaxed was the last thing he was feeling right now.  After all, who knew what torture was about to be inflicted on him within the confines of the mysterious rooms upstairs?  He’d heard about it from other people, overheard snippets of their conversation, even caught a glimpse of the complicated looking equipment, but the truth was that he had no idea what to expect.  He didn’t belong here.  He couldn’t think of anywhere he belonged less, except maybe on-stage during a Chippendales “performance”.

He felt consumed by an impulse to get up and leave there and then, maybe come back again another day.  But they had already seen his face, and if he bailed out now he’d be too embarrassed ever to return again, whatever hasty promises he'd make to himself on the way out.  No – as usual, best go blindly forward through the pain and humiliation that was guaranteed to follow.  He might even be surprised.

Why couldn’t he be more like that group of twentysomethings standing over by the Energising Juice Bar?  The ones dressed in designer Lycra, all toned and tanned (OK, maybe a little over-tanned for a rainy evening in February), confident and superior looking as they laughed and swigged from their glasses of elderflower juice with extract of Chilean gnat’s piss, or whatever it was.  He looked down at the drink he’d automatically gone for when he came in ten minutes ago.  Plain coffee, black no sugar.  Not even a cappuccino or a latte.  He imagined a headline from one of those stupid women’s magazine quizzes.  ‘What does your favourite drink say about you?’  Hmmm...that you're a boring bastard, probably.

A young woman who had gone to great lengths to be thought of as attractive sashayed into the lounge in an eye-watering haze of perfume, scanning the room for her prey.

“James Grier?”

He held up his arm shyly in acknowledgement, an embarrassing flashback of his schooldays rushing through his mind as he did so.

The woman, wearing a badge bearing a hyperactive ‘Hi! My name is Michelle!’ sat down in the armchair opposite his, her painted-on smile now replaced by an overly studious frown as she checked her clipboard.

“OK James, welcome to Fit4Life.  I’m just going to ask you a few questions before we let you loose in the gym (Michelle accompanied this with a self-satisfied giggle). First off, why did you decide to join us today?”

Jim cleared his throat.  “Err…well, I suppose it’s that whole idea of change, isn’t it.  You know, you come to the gym to become a better version of yourself in a way.”  He smiled thoughtfully.  “Or to become someone else; depends on how you look at it.”

Michelle looked at him as though he’d just addressed her in fluent Klingon, before flatly responding, “That’s great, but it’s not on my answer sheet.  I’ll just go through the options for you and you can choose one, OK?  Improved social life, meeting a new partner, making new friends, getting involved in the community through our events calendar, free DVD rental, or improved fitness.”

So according to the order of the options on offer, most of the people who wanted to join a gym had actual fitness at the bottom of their priority list.  However amusing he found this, Jim would have to concede that Michelle had a point.  His real reasons for his entering this torture chamber were twofold.  The first was the fact that his Alpha-male flatmate Jack was always going on about joining the gym “one day” and it would be a rare turn of one-upmanship for Jim to have gotten in first, so to speak.  The second reason was the vision of feminine perfection he had seen entering these very doors twice in the previous week.  Just those brief glimpses of her, with her perfect blonde ponytail and her beautiful smile, had lifted Jim’s ordinarily dull days.  He wasn’t stupid; she was out of his league, even in the unlikely event that he’d get to speak to her at some point – and besides, he never knew what to say to women anyway – but it was her happiness, her magnetism, her obvious self-confidence, that Jim wanted so desperately for himself. 

“Improved fitness, I suppose.”

“Great, that’s lovely…” Michelle vigorously ticked one of the boxes.  Not looking up from the clipboard she continued, “And what is it that you do for a living?”

“I’m an accountant.”  Jim instantly regretted saying this in a slightly lowered tone – his career choice was nothing to be ashamed of, after all.  He liked it, and he’d worked hard to get to where he was now.  It was just that whenever he pictured accountants working out at the gym he pictured men in their forties, built like the ‘Mr. Muscle’ man and still wearing their glasses as they tried in vain to lift a weight heavier than a can of Heinz beanz.   Did one of the Lycra-clad group turn and look at him just then?  She did, she was probably picturing the exact same image.  God, what was he doing here? 

“But I make a nice living; you know – pays the bills.”  He winced inside.

Michelle merely ticked off a few other boxes on her mysterious sheet, before explaining in her monotone voice where the men’s changing rooms were and that “Carlos will meet you on the gym floor in ten minutes, he’ll show you around.”

That would be Carlos of the ‘Body Combat Classes with Carlos – PORTUGUESE MAN OF WAR!’ posters you’d be blind to miss, currently adorning all the walls in the lounge.  Great.

The men’s changing room was just as bad as Jim had imagined it; creaking plywood lockers and the characteristic smells of month-old sweat and BO mingled with various makes of macho deodorant.  Several men stood naked and proud as they rubbed themselves down with their towels and chatting.  Jim noted that the fewer clothes they wore, the louder their voices, and he very deliberately avoided eye (or any other body part) contact as he quickly ducked into one of the few curtained cubicles.  Would he ever be that confident in his physique?

The answer to his question came in the once-over he gave himself in the privacy of his cubicle’s full length mirror. He looked…exactly like a twenty-eight year old accountant on his first visit to the gym.  His spindly white legs protruded apologetically from his too-large black shorts, his pigeon-chest strained to fill the light grey cotton T-shirt that he only just realised now was going to magnify every drop of sweat on his body.  Jim grabbed the emergency can of Lynx (those TV ads had a lot to answer for) he’d packed in his sports bag and sprayed it liberally under his arms, waving them madly around in the hope that it would absorb some of the sweat that was already starting to show under the armpits of his T shirt.  He couldn’t look sweaty before he’d even worked out.  He’d be laughed out of the gym and straight back home again, with a dinner for one in front of the TV.  Again.

The gym itself wasn’t quite as Jim had expected as the scene for his major life transformation.  Small, loud and stuffy, despite a sign on the door stating that it was “fully air-conditioned”.  A free weights section, overcrowded with well-built men in wifebeater vests of varying colours, grunting as they lifted the heaviest weights they could possibly take (Jim wanted to go over to them and shout “For God’s sake, get a lighter weight if it’s that much of a fucking strain!”), stood in the corner of the room, while on the other side housed the obligatory line of treadmills. 

The loud music pumping through the speakers made Jim feel slightly uncomfortable; ‘Club Classix 2008’ wasn’t meant for people like him.  It was for people who actually went clubbing, for a start.   He felt old even being in the same room with it playing, although even he had to admit you couldn’t really get much of a motivating workout going with Radiohead’s greatest hits spurring you on.  He had to give this place a chance.  Didn’t he want his life to change, didn’t he want to become a better person, someone with a lifestyle rather than just a life, and not much of one at that?  Besides, there were some seriously good-looking women here, most of them in tight, sleek workout gear…

“James Grier?” enquired a gruff voice at his side.  Carlos, ‘PORTUGUESE MAN OF WAR!’ had immediately recognised Jim as a new recruit.  Funny, that.

 “So, James – what are your fitness goals?” asked Carlos.  He asked the question as though he was asking Jim what his favourite colour was – devoid of any genuine interest.  His accent was more Essex Cockney than Mediterranean, despite his suggested Portuguese roots.  Jim doubted that he was ever challenged much over this however, due to the not insignificant factors of his being over six feet tall and built like a tank – or a “brick shithouse” as Jim’s Nan would eloquently have put it.  Still, he was a great advert for the place.

He shrugged.  “Just to get a bit more toned and fit in general.”  Yeah, and the rest.

“I know…you want muscles like this,” Carlos flexed his arm, and his huge and admittedly impressive bicep rose up; his tanned, vein-filled trophy.  “Well don’t worry mate, we can get you there,” he continued distractedly as he waved hello to some seasoned gym regulars across the room.

“We’ll start you off on the treadmill, get a bit of fat burning going.”  Treadmill.  At least Jim knew what a treadmill was.  Well, he thought he did.  This one looked normal, until you got up close and saw the mass of complicated buttons adorning the front of it.  But it wouldn’t take that long before he mastered it, and  Jim could just see it now…his flatmate Jack, running breathlessly, red-faced and sweaty on the treadmill, begging Jim to slow it down as he stood at the side, flexing his newly toned bicep, just like Carlos, as he chatted casually with a group of the sexy Lycra ladies. Ha – how do you like playing second-fiddle now, Jack? 

“OK, we’ll start on a small incline and just a bit of light jogging…how’s that for you?” Carlos didn’t wait for a reply as he pressed a few buttons at lightning speed and the treadmill whirred into life.  If he was honest, Jim would have to admit that it was going a bit too fast for him, but he couldn’t say anything – he’d look like an idiot.  At least try it first…

“Right mate, just got a bit of paperwork to catch up on so I’ll leave you here for ten minutes or so if that’s OK.  No cheating and messing with the buttons, eh?”  Carlos winked at Jim, before turning to catch up with a stunning redhead in figure-hugging black workout gear.  “Joanna…you still on for Tuesday night?” 

Jim continued joggi…no, sorry, this was definitely running.  Although he couldn’t make out what any of the buttons did, there was a big red one on the front that he was willing to bet was the ‘Emergency Stop’ button, not that he’d actually press it…Carlos had told him not to mess with the buttons.  Besides, what if an alarm went off once he pressed it?

As he deliberated this, a man got onto the treadmill next to Jim’s and started pounding away expertly…and extremely heavily, sending vibrations through Jim's own treadmill as he ran.  Jim sneaked a peek out of the corner of his eye; the man was enormous, in his 40s with thinning hair, and with a voice that could rival Brian Blessed’s for loudness as he bellowed to his friend next to him.  Who could talk on these things?  Brian’s lack of consideration seemed also to extend to the fact that he obviously hadn’t washed his vest since his last gym visit…or rather, his last few visits. The smell was like nothing on Earth, and there was no escape for Jim, gasping for breath next to him like a wounded animal.

He continued running, looking straight ahead at the wall, trying and failing to look as though this was normal, that he did this every day, maybe even twice a day on weekends.  In front of him he could just make out a handwritten sign proclaiming that “treadmill use is restricted to one hour at peak times”.  Restricted to one hour?  Were there really people on the planet so stupid, so utterly deranged as to want to spend time on this contraption for over an hour?  Jim paced onwards, getting more and more out of breath, running as though his life depended on it.  He couldn’t take it any more.  With a trembling, juddering hand, he reached out for that red button…

“Sorry about that mate, left you a bit longer than I thought.  Are you OK?” Carlos slowed the treadmill down to a walk, Jim’s heart pounding, lungs feeling as though they would never give him enough air.  As he struggled, he heard in the background an outbreak of loud, girlish giggling.  Were they laughing at him?  He didn't care if they were.  Right at that moment, he didn’t think he would ever laugh again.  Sweat dripped from his brow and his grey T-shirt clung to his soaking body as he gasped for breath. 

“Nothing to worry about, it’s always like that on your first go.  You’ll soon get used to it mate.  Right…now you’re warmed up, let’s get you over to the weights bench, start pumping some IRON!” enthused Carlos, madness in his eyes.

“Can…you…give me…just a few minutes?” Jim wheezed, clutching the rail of the treadmill as he struggled to get off.  He needed water.  He needed to sit down.  He needed to get away from Brian Blessed on the treadmill, the stench of whom felt like it would never, ever leave his nostrils.  He needed to punch Carlos in his smug, not-really-Portuguese-after-all face.  He needed to collapse on the floor and die.

“’Course, mate.  Sit down over there, I’ll be back in a couple of minutes and we’ll press on.”

Jim sat down by the water cooler, grabbing a plastic cup and throwing the contents over himself before refilling it and gulping the water down gratefully.  As his breathing calmed he watched all these ordinary men and women trying to be extraordinary in their expensive clothes, pressing weights, grunting and groaning, making sure they got as much attention as possible, all the while surrounded by posters all over the walls announcing the next night out so they could make up for all the working out by throwing junk food and alcohol down their necks.  It was vain and ridiculous.

He didn’t want a lifestyle after all, not if this was what it amounted to.  He just wanted to be himself, accountant and all.  He was happy with his life just the way it was.  Even Jack and his Alpha-male status seemed comfortable now, the natural order of things.  The way it was supposed to be.

“First time?”

Jim looked up at the vision standing in front of him.  She was attractive-ish; mousey hair, freckles and a warm smile, but undoubtedly the best thing about her was that she wasn’t wearing designer workout clothes.  Just leggings and a red T-shirt that showcased her sweaty underarms and a not-entirely-perfect figure.  To Jim that just about made her the most beautiful creature on Earth.

“Yeah.  And my last.”

The girl laughed.  “Mine too.”  She sat down next to him and took a swig from her water bottle.  They stared straight ahead, watching the crazy people on their hamster wheels, running and running, never actually getting anywhere.

“I’m Lucy, by the way.”

“I’m Jim.” 

“You’re not enjoying this, are you Jim?”

“No.  Are you enjoying it, Lucy?”

“Not especially, no.”

“Shame really.  I reckon this place could do with an injection of normality.”

“Couldn’t agree more, Jim.”

“Fancy a drink?”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day.”

“Then let’s get the hell out of here before Carlos the Jackal makes me PUMP SOME IRON!”

“If you manage to escape I’ll meet you downstairs in ten.”

Jim took a much-needed shower, washing away those stupid expectations of himself.  That Lynx deodorant was going straight in the bin when he got home.  There was nothing wrong with Imperial Leather, after all.