I’m in the gym planting trees on the bench press after burning fossil fuels in KFC last night. I’m unacceptably leisurely in my approach to training, staying on equipment longer than the time I queued for Wimbledon tickets and the lady at the ticket office finally told me they didn’t sell tickets for the A.F.C. Wimbledon vs Maidstone United match.

My warm up set with just the bar is done. Almost before I’ve put the bar back I’m on my phone. Then I feel an inquisitive presence. Two regulars stand over me. I’m intimidated… or so it would appear to the novice player. In fact, I’m a grandmaster and two steps ahead of them. I’ve already seen the whole thing play out.

My mark stutters his opener, as is custom, “H-how many sets left mate?”, he clears his throat.
I wince-smile like an ice cream man who doesn’t even have a mini milk to his name, “ooo well I’ve just started I’m afraid lads” I pause as he digests the severity of me not even giving him a number, then I deliver a trailing “yeahhh…”.
He staggers back against the ropes “Oh. Uhh…”
But he’s stayed. Must have a good lawyer. He’s served me with a summons. Now I’m expected to offer to share the bench. But there’s two of them, it’s not a one person gimme. Ball in my court. He still thinks I’m in here to get healthier.
“Well I would say “let’s share” but…” I shift my gaze to Robin and then back to the Bat, grimacing with an unprovable head shake, like a racist mechanic who takes payment before the job and has just seen on the customer’s credit card that her name is India.
He inhales a balloon’s worth of sweaty gym air, which in this scenario adds one to his word count. He’s on three. None of which you’ll find in a dictionary.
“Well it’s just… well there’s three of us…” I’m now a plumber trying to price himself out of a particularly dirty job “…the breaks, we might be resting too long, lose our momentum, sweat will turn cold and cause a chill-” he cuts me off.
I screwed up! Say to someone “don’t think of a pink elephant” and the person will hear “don’t think” and shut down. I used the word “share”. Damn it! His inhale was actually the prelude to a sigh of relief.
He starts welling the beginning of his sentences, mirroring me, “Well we’re happy to share…”, it’s my turn to breathe in deeply, like I’ve been made to walk the plank, before he adds “…Thanks man. Yeah that’d be great”.
I try to put up one last fight “wel-” but I’m already feeling lightheaded and give up, “…urgh sure”.
He thinks he’s got me. But he doesn’t realise I’m one of those fish that skirts the big shark and feeds off its dead skin and parasites.
What’s the only thing I like doing in the gym more than earning brownie points to spend on brownies?
Absolutely nothing!
Courtesy of Dumb and Dumber, I’ve now got double the rest time between sets AND I put up a fight to protect my intensity so the others in the gym think I’m serious about my training AND I’m a good guy for sharing!
I strain hard to not smile.

And now for the prestige.
Things start well. We climb slowly in weight. The Dark Knight is bigger than me but nothing I can’t handle. Robin and I hit it off straight away, basking in our puniness.
There are pros and cons of sharing. You need to keep your ego intact so the advantage is you’re forced to train hard. The disadvantage is you’re forced to train hard.
I’m not feeling either so again play possum. I hold my breath to turn my face red on just moderate weights and get him to spot me when there’s still 20 miles of charge left in the Tesla.
The only way I could ruin my reputation in the gym now is by not helping the Justice League change the weights. But the Caped Crusader is deceptively strong as his alias suggests (my own fault for not spotting this sooner). He was hustling me! The changing of the weights becomes the toughest workout I’ve had since I shared with the same guy 6 months ago. I’m already bearing an impressive red glow when his heavy sets begin, then Barney the dinosaur comes out to play for his one rep max. His number two spots this and respectfully takes over changing the tyres from me and helps to unzip my boilersuit.
I turn to the audience and there are more invisible nods. In my eyes I’ve failed, but in theirs I gave it my all. My credibility remains intact.

As I dizzily flee to a machine on the opposite side of the gym which I don’t know how to use, I’m left wondering… gymming is a hot blooded, American, winner takes all sport and there can be no draws… so who won? Did they take my king? Or did the queen pull off her gambit?