The Boys in the gym

By Noel Galon de Leon

They say the gym is a temple of discipline. And maybe in some cities, it is. You know, pristine, serious, people counting reps like they’re guarding state secrets. But in my barangay? Ay, ambot, it’s also a comedy stage, a confessional booth, and, on certain humid afternoons, a palengke where gossip changes hands faster than a buy-one-take-one protein shake. The moment you push that glass door, the air hits you like an overzealous spotter, a glorious, unmistakable mix of rubber mats, cold metal plates, and that sacred gym scent “baho balhas nga indi masugid.” It’s not bad, per se… just… how do I put it? Like the ghost of 2018 sweat still lingers. And there they are, my boys. My fellow warriors of the iron. My companions in sweat, mild back pain, and questionable form.

First sight? The Mirror Flexer. A classic species, found in gyms from Batanes to Basilan. There he stands, planted in front of the mirror like it’s ABS-CBN primetime and he’s the leading man. He doesn’t just check form, no, no, no. He admires himself with the sincerity of a man watching his firstborn take their first steps. Curl, pause, flex, wink. Sometimes, I feel like I should hand him a bouquet and whisper, “Congrats sa Mr. Purok 3 2025!” At first, I judged him, grabe ka  vain, a. But then it hit me, in this life, if you can’t be your own fan, who’s going to be? Self-love, baby. And biceps love, apparently.

Then there’s The Grunter. You’ll know him. You’ll hear him before you see him. His primal roars bounce off the dumbbell racks and echo like the town crier announcing a barangay-wide calamansi shortage. “HUUUUUUHHH!” I don’t know if he’s bench pressing 150 kilos or exorcising his inner demons. At first, I rolled my eyes. Now? He’s part of my workout playlist. My rhythm is, One… two… Grunter Boy scream… three. Honestly, without him, the gym would be too quiet, like a fiesta without karaoke, or a wake without coffee.

And then… The Social Butterfly. The unofficial barangay captain of the gym. This man could make conversation with a resistance band. He’ll plop down beside you mid-rest and go, “Ti, kabalo ka? Next thing you know, you’ve been talking about his neighbor’s messy breakup for 20 minutes and forgot you were supposed to be doing squats. Sometimes I hide from him when I’m in serious Tito pump mode. Other times, I give in. Because let’s be real, a little tsismis cardio burn calorie, too.

Lurking in the background, The Hoodie Hermit. Every gym has one. Hoodie on. Head down. Headphones in. Moves like a ghost who paid for a 3-month plan but refuses to talk to the living. I’ve tried to smile at him. Tried a casual nod. Nothing. My Ilonggo instinct says, ay, indi na lang pag-usisaa. Basi naga-training para sa away sa La Paz.

Then there’s The Overloaded Beast. The legend. He loads up the bar with more plates than a Jollibee birthday buffet. Five per side. You think, Wow, ka kusog, a! Then… nothing. Just stands there, psyching himself up like Pacquiao waiting for the bell. Sometimes he lifts it. Sometimes he quietly unloads the plates like nothing happened. I respect the drama. It’s performance art at this point.

My seasonal favorite, The New Year’s Resolution Boy. He arrives on January 2 with brand-new shoes, crisp gloves, and the fiery determination of a man running from debt collectors. By February? AWOL. By March? The only proof of his existence is a dusty membership card, still taped to the front desk like a memorial.

And, The Treadmill Philosopher. This man walks at speed level 2, a slow, steady stroll while staring into the distance with the weight of the world in his eyes. Sweating? Barely. Thinking? Deeply. Solving climate change, maybe. Or just deciding between batchoy and pares after this.

But here’s the thing, the clang of the weights, the smell of effort, the random “Ti, damo ka nakaon kagab-i?”  it’s all part of the charm. The gym is our barangay hall. Our therapy session. Our stage. Here, we don’t just lift metal. We lift bad moods. We lift each other’s spirits. And on some days, we lift each other’s ego, too.

That’s why I keep coming back. Because in this sweaty, noisy, sometimes amoy-chicken-inaasal corner of the city, whether you’re flexing like a peacock, screaming like you stepped on a Lego, or hiding because you owe someone money, you belong.

And maybe, just maybe… next week, Overloaded Beast will finally lift that bar.

Or maybe he won’t. Either way, I’ll be there. Spotting. Watching. Laughing. Sweating.