They are everywhere. At the time of writing PureGym has 141 venues across the UK, with plans to have at least twice as many operating by the end of next year. The Gym, similarly, has more than a hundred locations, and boasts over 100,000 members. In most major towns and cities it is now possible to work out at any time of the day or night, usually without ever interacting with another human being.
Each visit is the same. You enter your pin and are granted admission through a narrow plastic airlock, your image recorded by an ever-attentive ceiling-mounted camera. You leave your belongings in one of a bank of identical lockers, secured with your branded four-digit padlock. You work out. Maybe you shower in the vast, humid, ever-damp showers. You leave again through the same computer-controlled tube which granted you entry.
These spaces are open continuously. But there is a rhythm to their use.
In the early hours of the morning they are quiet. A few gym-goers arrive before the sun is up. They are serious. Dedicated. They screw headphones into ears, and exercise with a quiet, machine-like efficiency.
Later, there is a pre-work rush. The lockers bristle with identical padlocks. The showers are full, the air becoming humid and thick. Ties are fastened. Sweaty clothes are stuffed into plastic bags. Laces are tightened. Those leaving are attired for work in shirts and sensible dresses. Those arriving are clad in skintight activewear.
The rush dies. A steady stream of people filter in and out. Weights are slammed. Protein shakes are drunk. The drinking fountain becomes soiled with some anonymous powder. Sweating gym-goers pace back and forth where they can, catching their breath. Clusters of friends meet, laugh, shake hands, then fall back to the task at hand.
Classes begin. The ambient music that permeates the air-conditioned atmosphere is replaced by a loud, pumping soundtrack. Cyclists travel nowhere on stationary bikes, standing on the pedals as they surge up imaginary hills. Cohorts of lycra-clad students bend and stretch in an uneven symphony. Identical weights are lifted by unidentical arms.
The treadmills are sparsely populated. Someone runs loudly on one, the impact of each footfall shaking the whole machine. Someone else stands with their feet on either side of the belt, the ground rushing past beneath them while they regain their breath.
As 17:00 approaches, the after-work rush begins. This is the most frantic time of day. Queues form at the airlocks and at the drinking fountains. Every machine is occupied. Weights are discarded in front of the racks in a chaotic tumble. Voices rise over the music. Gy- goers exercise with only the smallest margins of personal space between them.
The changing rooms suffer. The floors become wet, the walls smeared with unknown liquids. Possessions are forgotten. Lockers filled but not locked. The scent of bodies becomes a potent thing, thick as murk.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling window, the world darkens. Night is coming, but the flood of visitors doesn’t abate until late in the day. Almost midnight. After the rush and bustle of the day the stillness is glassy. Relaxed. Those who can come late are able to work out in relative peace. Machines pump and rattle, but they do so quietly. Things are calm and tired after a day of intense activity.
01:00. There are few here now. Committed night owls, ears plugged with headphones. Elsewhere people are drinking and dancing and fucking and crying, but here there is work to be done.
And work continues to be done well into the night. Steadily, determinedly. Politely, even. Until 04:00 in the morning – the perfect hour between the night and the morning. Silence falls. The airlocks wait, unusued. Visitor numbers are counted in single digits, if there are any visitors to count at all.
It won’t be long now until the cleaners come. Until the gym renews itself. Sets itself up for another day… as it does without pause, day after day after day, from the beginning of its life until the end. Each day is a heartbeat. A breath.