Until a few
weeks ago I used to go riding with a guy named Carl. Not on motorbikes. Not
mountain bikes or even road bicycles. The bikes we rode were stationary and at
the gym. Mine was a spinning bike (like the ones they have classes for); his
was a recumbent – the kind with a seatback you can use as you peddle.
Our rides
together were by no means scheduled; it just happened that he and I often were
at the gym around the same time and our workout routines were such that we
ended up together. Then he did something I was unhappy about and it all
stopped.
I didn’t really
know Carl, but considered him a friend. Not in the sense of borrowing money or
sharing secrets. He was just a friendly face that over time I had gotten used
to in a familiar place. He was a lot older than me (as are most members at my
gym) – early 70s, as I recall.
When I first
ran into him a couple years ago, he was sitting in a chair at the end of a row
of treadmills, apparently spent from his workout. We exchanged glances, maybe
nodded to each other and that was about it. Over time though, we became used to
seeing each other; nods turned hi’s, which led to short conversations.
Age aside, Carl
was in the autumn of his life, physically. That his health was failing was
apparent. He moved slowly and seemed to rest more than he worked out. Yet I
found myself impressed by this little old man. Though his body was betraying
him, his outlook remained bright. More than once he spoke, uh… enthusiastically
of the opposite sex. It warmed my heart to watch him respectfully chatting up
the ladies of his generation with the eternal vigor that stays in a man’s mind,
even when his body no longer can keep up. But his eye for the ladies was
trumped by his engaging sense of humor and apparent desire to engage his
physical self on the various machines at the gym.
In many ways I
respected Carl – not for how hard he worked out (his body was long past any
kind of strenuous enterprise). Instead, he instilled me with a sense of pride
in self. We never talked about his motivations for coming to the gym like he
did – whether it was doctor’s orders, a social outlet or just a habit he’d
acquired over the years. Whatever the case, Carl provoked the notion that
working out can be a life-long endeavor, one that doesn’t necessarily have to
be rooted in humdrum notions like keeping fit, losing weight or other preventive
health objectives. Sometimes it can just be fun – a way of being. Then he did
something really disappointing.
One day while
working out at the gym, I found myself looking at the bike Carl usually rode
and realized I hadn’t seen him in a while. I pondered that thought for a moment
then returned to my workout. About a week later on the gym’s bulletin board I
noticed a newspaper clipping that included Carl’s photo. It was his obituary
notice. Blood drained from my face as I read it. For a time he had been a
fixture in my gym world and now he was gone. At least physically. In the
following weeks I came to realize Carl’s spirit remained. Through our brief but
personal interactions, he taught me a few simple things. Among them was to do
what you enjoy, even if it’s a losing cause.
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