No one knows where I came from, who I am, when I got here or how I get home. I am simply part of the gym’s existence, like the water fountain and the ambient hip-hop music piped in through invisible speakers. . The trainers take no notice of me, nor do the maintenance staff cleaning the floor. I interact with no one; I could be a specter seen only by the guilty, a mirage or hallucination, if not for the squeaking sound of my slow but steady progress around the digital cycling course. The sound proves I exist. I am alive, with the heart rate monitor read-out to prove it. In all my sinewy splendor I am the pinnacle of health. And yet the fragility of the human condition has never been more readily apparent than in my hollow cheeks and spotted hands. . Beneath my enormous red headphones, wisps of hair stay slicked to my scalp by a torrent of sweat. A towel hangs limp around my shoulders, futile against the deluge. Basketball shorts as old as the game itself and a threadbare cotton top from the university that rejected you are the only garments that separate my spindly frame from the plasticky seat of the bike. . Article by @lizzzzzielogan #gymrat #stationarybike #oldmangym #alwaysinmotion #keepitmoving #crushitzone https://www.instagram.com/p/B7MbVeaA4Ur/?igshid=1q1jdyqzyulxc
