Eyes

I hate when these trashes clog up space in gyms. There she stood in front of me, short, not too skinny, not too flabby, not at all muscled, staring off at the other classes in session.

"First up is the deadlift. Hips back like so. Then drive from the heels like this. Repeat."

I've been doing deadlifts for half a decade now. I've done twice my bodyweight. I've been flirting with 500 lbs. for so long that we should be talking about her place or mine right now. I wouldn't say I'm an expert on deadlifts, but I know enough to be offended by what this woman is doing in front of me.

8 lbs. Lazy, goddamn lazy movement. Back rounded, head turned to the side to look at other people, open mouth sucking in air, muscles barely firing. She looks bored as hell. And why shouldn't she? If I was lifting a weight that cost me nothing, I'd be bored as hell too. I look at the women on her right. One black, one white, both impressive. Backs rigid and flat, hips shooting out back, muscles like steel wires. I look at the other members of this class and all of them are working hard. I'm pushed by their spirit.

But right now, right in front of me is this wom... this girl, who looks like she has a million better things to do.

"Rest!"

We stop. I take in the rest of the class. Some instructors stand arms akimbo clad in their Underarmor shirts. They're barely even warmed up yet. I look at this chubby girl at the far end of the class. She's probably a basic member like me. Comes in sweats and a tank top. I respect her. Most people would say that she's less fit than the girl in front of me. She has jiggle around the middle and on her legs. I take the opposite view. Her spirit works hard and gives a great effort every class. That's worthy of respect.

Henry Rollins taught me that the iron always gives it to you straight. People all around you try to tell you who you are, rock star gods or congealed sewage bricks. The iron never bullshits you, never gives you something you didn't earn. This woman in front of me won't get anything but an injury the way she's going. That chubby girl at the end? She's going to shine. She gives it her all every time and that's all I ask for, all I care about, all I need to stoke the furnace in my own heart.

I don't know who she is. Actually, to be honest, I don't really care to know. I like the class this way. No one talks. No one chats. No one is trying to ask me about the game that was on last night. They're all just working hard; steely eyes, focused, iron will being forged.

This woman won't last. She's already lost. You can tell it in the eyes. The body language. We're 45 minutes in. My lower back is screaming at me. My abdominals want to curl me into a ball and stay there. I'm swimming in a sea of my own sweat. I keep moving. She still dry and still lazily moving the 8 pounder like it was a bag of groceries. Like a suction-cupped tendril from the abyss, her very presence threatens to drag me back to the past, to who I used to be.

What are my eyes doing? I ask myself this question every time. Are they slowly rolling up in their sockets, wandering over and looking at other people? What are they doing? Straight ahead! Focus! We are not done yet! "You go where you look." That's a basic lesson driving schools teach. That's why you're supposed to keep your eyes on the road. That's why every feint in every sport starts with the eyes. Your eyes give away your level of commitment, your spirit, your veritas. Look forward, keep looking forward and nothing can pull you back.