I used to work out a lot, I really had a hard core training routine which complimented my rowing, cycling athletics and freestyle climbing. This was all up til the age of forty, when my wife was pregnant with our first I ditched the gym in favour of being supportive.
Some of the things that happened in the gym were interesting to say the least. This one particular event happened when I was thirty-oneish. I had gone to the gym for my leg workout day, this was going to be the day when I pushed the envelope of my weights, so it was going to be low reps heavy weight routine. I did a cardio warm up, rowing machine and static cycle before running a circuit around the park that the sports centre was next to.
One I’d bone all this and was nicely limbed and warm I set too. I had a little routine devised where I was going to target all the major muscle groups in my legs. So I racked up a full stack on the leg press and attached some 20k plates, I can’t remember how much but it was certainly over my personal best.
Now I was one of those vest and cycle/compression short wearing fellas, rather than strapping my thighs I relied on compression shorts to prop my hamstrings. So I got onto the seat, wiggled into a comfortable position and was about to start.
In walked Sally, she was a bulimic aerobics and circuits girl (we dated briefly which is how I found out she was bulimic – another story). I was hot for Sally and she was in a thong leotard and cycle shorts her usual kit. So I was momentarily distracted as I made my first leg press. I pushed hard, right at my limit. Suddenly there was this searing pain in my groin. Oh fuck! I thought I’ve given myself a hernia, but no.
I looked down to discover a testicle had popped through a micro hole in my compression shorts. It was dangling their like a fat pink blob, obvious against the black of the shorts. Bollocks, I though, fuck that hurts I thought next, shite this is embarasing I though last how am I going to get from here to the changing room?
So there I was bollock, dangling from my shorts, gingerly getting out of the seat. Cupping myself as I waddled past all the gym denizens and numpties and a bird I quite fancied. I then had to manoeuvre through the sports centre concourse to the changing room. Fortunately as part of my every day carry I have a swiss army knife on my keyring. I took the scissors and very carefully cut the shorts off, leaving a circle of black material surrounding my nut. I sat and really carefully cut free my ball, just as some old fellas who’d been playing squash entered the changing room, took one look at me, knife in hand operating on my groin.