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After a few strong shots of (what’s that powerful pre-workout called? Ah, yes. Tequila.)
Yes, after a few shots of tequila, my friends and I are at an outdoor gym in the bustling, humid downtown of Medellin called Parque Lleras. It’s midnight.
The yellow streetlights are shining through the mist, and the whole wide nighttime world is a little silly and a little whirly. We’re capping off our first night out on the town. We’ve been holed up for COVID measures for a day or two, and now we’re uncaged and running a little wild.
The city is surrounded by rainforest landscape. Overhead, big green jungle palms are luffing a little bit. There’s a creek somewhere nearby. We can hear rippling water, but we can’t really see it.
Under the palms, there are barbells, pull-up bars, and dip bars. The weights have chains on them so you can’t steal them. All the metal bars are painted yellow. We’re in our night out collared shirts, dress pants and shoes. Not exactly gym wear, but who cares?
I’ve got a deadlift bar that’s linked to a big rattling chain running to the ground. I’m yanking the bar upward. We’re all counting each other’s reps in Spanish.
Uno! Dos! Tres!
Two Colombian gym bros are pumping chained-up barbells in the corner laughing at the drunken Gringos.
Cuatro! Cinco! Seis!
Then a new friend of ours, some mobile phone millionaire who expatriated, is wandering out in the middle of the road, walking off some soreness from the squat rack.
A yellow cab whips around the corner and screeches around him.
“What? Come at me bro!” screams the millionaire, arms spread out.
And what intoxicant can make a creature of flesh and bone look at two tons of 65-mile-an-hour metal and say, “come at me bro?” It’s Colombia. Use your imagination.
All is well once more, but we just have to keep it that way. It’s clearly time to go home, to get off the street.
We say sorry and gracias to the gym bros in the corner.
They laugh and say no, no, thank you guys.
And on that note, we stumble back to the apartment.