I started on the treadmill; however, because I couldn’t figure out how to control the speed, after five or so minutes of embarrassingly slow walking, I moved on to the exercise bike.
I had once read that interval training is good for you, so I pushed at max speed for a minute or two, then throttled back for a minute or two, then back to max speed, and so on. After about 20 minutes of this I was completely pooped, so I began warming down and that was when I first started feeling unwell. It started with some light-headedness, but quickly turned into full-blown nausea.
I got off the bike and began walking towards the exit. I felt heavy. I needed to go to the toilet, but it was obvious after only a few steps that I couldn’t go any further. I sat down on a weight bench and slumped forward, head between my legs. I felt like I might throw up then pass out, or vice versa.
I sat there, feeling as bad as I’d ever felt. I flashed back to a newspaper lifestyle article I’d read in my 20s about the high frequency of heart attacks among middle-aged men pushing themselves too hard in new exercise regimes. I then felt much worse.
AdvertisementAdvertise with NZME.Terrified and embarrassed
It was the exact ticking time bomb I had read about 20 years ago, when I was possessed of all the stupidity and arrogance of a young person with no understanding of the nature of time. When reading that article, it’s possible I’d believed I might some day be the right age for an exercise-induced heart attack, but I would never have considered myself dumb enough to have one.
Between me reading that article in 2002 and stepping off that exercise bike in 2025, I had eaten thousands of meals laden with fat, salt, cholesterol and processed meats, had experienced several lifetimes of stress, had accumulated wrinkles, children, a bald patch and too many anxieties to name.
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All these thoughts and realisations rushed in and filled me up and I saw with a sense of great doom and clarity that I was going to die in a Chinese hotel gym.
I was both terrified and embarrassed by the understanding that my death was going to be so cliched that it was a topic in newspaper lifestyle sections.
I lurched forward, slumping on to the rubberised floor. Only one other patron remained in the gym – a vigorous man who was aggressively dominating the rowing machine while wearing a singlet that revealed him to be aware of the excellence of the shape he was in.
As my life flashed before my eyes, I contemplated whether saving it would be worth the humiliation of asking him to call an ambulance, or at least the front desk.
The author, in happier times in his hotel room in Shanghai.
What if he didn’t speak English? What if he thought I was an idiot or – worse – a loser? What if our exchange was very, very awkward? What if a whole lot of people gathered around me and made a scene? What if he laughed at my form lying on the floor at his feet, threw his sweaty workout towel on my ashen face and walked off to consume his protein shake and two raw eggs?
I was finding it hard to think clearly, so I did what all middle-aged men do in a crisis: nothing. I sat there, allowing the waves of nausea and wooziness to wash over me with great and furious regularity while hoping for the best.
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This went on for several minutes. Then, just as I began to think I would be forced to prostrate myself before the rowing man, I felt the tide of death beginning to ebb and my life force beginning to trickle back.
The waves of nausea continued, but with steadily diminishing force. It became increasingly clear I would survive, which was a relief because I desperately needed to go to the toilet.
After a few minutes, I rose unsteadily and walked to the men’s bathroom. The lights weren’t working. I locked myself in a cubicle and sat there feeling relieved and sorry for myself. It was utterly black and completely silent and smelled like death. I’d never been happier.