Another Random London Story - The Gym.

My second day as a London was spent fixing papers, buying supplies (bedsheets and pillow cases, amongst them, which means that I had slept on a naked bed in night one), and yes, enrolling at a nearby gym. I have been following a strict workout routine for 5 plus years now- this after neglecting my body for a wee bit as a corporate worker. I cannot imagine what my life would be like sans exercise. Actually, I can. Life without exercise would likely be MISERABLE. 

The Gym Walworth Road was situated 0.4 miles from my first flat in London. To me, it was a place of solace. To get there, I'd walk down southbound through Walworth, passing through branches of Tesco Express, Mailboxes Etc., Iceland, CeX (I looked through here tons over my time in London, but never ended up buying anything), and Marks and Spencer. Over time, some stores survived, and some didn't. One day, a Chinese takeaway place suddenly popped up where, I believe, a pawnshop once stood. I recall having visited the East Street Market twice during my stay (that's where I bought my first set of sheets), and went to the Walworth Road branch of Argos to get myself a waterproof mp3 player which still functions to this day. 

It amazed me how devoid of BS signing up for a gym membership was in London. You could do everything online sans any fuss, or stalking on mobile from a sales agent or trainer (gyms in Manila tend to subscribe to this practice). I remember spending many a memorable day and night in this gym- sometimes working out at the weirdest of hours, and once, running into some rowdy teenagers on my way home. Those young-ans must have been drunk or something, given that they jeered at me and pretended to block my path back to my flat. It was scary for a second. More irritating than scary, now that I look at the experience in hindsight. 

If you brought me back to The Gym in Walworth Road I'd be able to tell you wish treadmills had loose belts, and which didn't. That's how familiar I was with the place. You had your run-of-the-mill types at the gym on any given day. You have your hard bodies who looked like they could be WWE Superstars (huge fellas who could lift tremendously heavy weights), girls who seemed more interested in showing off certain body parts as opposed to working out, and normal blokes like me who were there to train for specific sports/events, or those who were there merely to de-stress, and/or lose a few kilos. This gym was a cross section of South London folk, a United Nations of people who wanted to break a sweat. Asians, Africans, Brits, Americans, etc. A microcosm of London as a whole, really. 

When I think about my time in London today, I find myself scrambling not to allow the entire experience to become a collection of vague images and anecdotes. I want to remember the smells, tastes, and sensations, too. I don't ever want to forget my time there. 

This is why I need to keep writing about my solo flight there. 

It's a story worth documenting. It's a story worth remembering.