I directed a grimace towards the bench press. Who was I kidding? After months of nearly killing myself working out three times a week, I was still the beanpole that I had always been, "More beef on a crutch," my grandmother had always said in exasperation as I had been growing up. Up and up, but not out.
Why had allowed my friend Matt, a star rugby player since our schooldays, to persuade me to join our local gym? I didn't really fit in with his musclebound friends. In a further moment of weakness, I had even let him convince me to take place in a weight lifting competition for charity. Apparently I needed a goal to work towards.
I hadn't made my regular training session, so I had gone to the gym alone, knowing that I needed to do all the work I could if I wasn't going to make a fool of myself at the competition. Now I was there, though, and without Matt to cajole me, I was having motivation problems.
"Come on, Sam," I said to myself, "at least I'm getting good exercise."
Lying on my back, I hoisted the barbell into the air. Unfortunately, I'd managed to get the weight wrong. I almost instantly realised that I was in trouble as I brought the bar down to my chest. Desperately I struggled to heft the iron off of my body, but the more I struggled, the weaker I felt.
The first rule about bench pressing is to never to try and do it on your own, and at that very moment I was discovering why. Just as I was beginning to get desperate, a second pair of hands materialised and helped me lift the weight. I gulped air as I sat up.
I struggled to my feet to thank my saviour. To my utter horror, I was standing face to face with a woman.
"Idiot!" she growled, fixing me with a fearsome glare, "don't you know enough to use a spotter? If you want to lift alone, use a machine." She turned on her heel and strode away.
