Sad Story.
Pete was just a guy I got to know through the gym. He came one or two nights a week, rode this big red motorbike which always looked immaculate. He’d park himself and his bag by the training ring, and have a little stretch. Then he’d throw himself into the skipping, used one of those chunky weighted ropes. The thinner ropes make quite a high whistling sound as they’re spinning but Pete’s rope always made a low-down breathy sound – like bad wind effects in a b-grade movie. Occasionally he’d come in wearing his work clobber, one of those fluoro orange vests over his khaki overalls. A couple of times I spoke to him and found out he worked at the airport as an engineer, some nights he was pushed for time because of the traffic and didn’t have time to go home and change.
Some nights we’d go for our lap round the block together and because me and him weren’t very quick we’d have a chin wag at the back. I’m not real good at talking while I run because it fucks my breathing, but I did my best. I found out that he liked dance music and music festivals and having a boogie. He found out that I liked rock music and drinking beer. Actually, we both liked drinking beer. We talked about how festivals like Summadayze and Parklife were ‘fucking mad for chicks’. Some nights we’d do a little light sparring together, just moving around a little. He always got the best of me – I think he’d fought a little when he was younger. He knew how to use his fists though, had a sneaky little right hand that seemed to find a home on my chin every time I pawed with a little jab. Always pulled his shots though, knew enough to know that I was out of my depth and look after me.
Some weeks you wouldn’t see Pete at all. Then he’d come back with a tan and tell you been up in Broome for a while, or he’d come back with a little bit of pud around the cheeks and chin, and you’d know he’d been putting away a few ales.
Then I hurt my knee from too much running and a physio told me I better give it a rest for a while, so I didn’t go to the gym. I’d had a reconstruction a few years back and had been too lazy to do the proper rehab. So I’d been running and skipping and boxing for 18 months with half a quad on my left leg. Eventually the working half said ‘fuck you’, and I had to take time.
So, I went away and did my work and did what I could to keep the weight off while I was gone. And after Christmas and New Year were by, I decided that it was time for me to head back to the gym. First training day was Monday, January 12, 2009. And I trained hard. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday – working my arse off.
Then on Thursday I’m working out with young Tom and he says:-
“Fuckin’ sad about Pete, hey?”
“Who?”
“You know Pete, the guy who always stood over there, wore a chunky chain.”
“Pete... Pete... doesn’t ring a bell...Oh Fuck! The guy who worked at the airport?”
“He fuckin’ died dude. Car crash, West Coast Highway.”
“Christ, when?”
“Dunno, maybe October, November last year.”
And just like that, the man I knew only as Pete was gone forever. Tom’s going to try and ask some of the older boys who knew Pete a bit better if they maybe had a picture of him that we could frame. Put it over by the training ring, where he always stood, where he skipped with that chunky fucking rope.
And it’s a safe bet that while I was getting my leg right, and in the first three days at the gym this year, Pete didn’t cross my mind once. It’s probably an even safer bet that from my last day at the gym until the day he died, I didn’t cross his mind either.
But tonight, Pete looms large in my thoughts. So, wherever you are, it was nice working out with you.
Life is a highway. You drive alongside people for a while then you either speed up, slow down or change lanes.
Last edited by Greig; 01-15-2009 at 11:29 AM.
"I take good care of my people. I like to inflict permanent psychological damage."
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