A regular

I have crossed over.

From bemused observer to garish spectacle.

From the guy who sniped from a slow-moving treadmill - "Hey, look at the old guy wheezing on the elliptical. Look at Bobby shortpants with the high socks, ha, ha, ha. Oh, and shhh, look over there at the guy so muscly he can't move his arms" - to an object of mockery.

Once a cynical outsider sent to observe the wildlife, I am now as much a part of the gym's flora and fauna as bad techno and those faded, signed posters of B- and C-list actors and athletes.

Yesterday, without even hesitating, I emerged from the locker room in a white T-shirt that my energy-efficient dryer has made too small, dark grey socks that I had worn to a funeral earlier in the day and  Bermuda shorts/swim trunks. The light blue shorts actually depict a map of Bermuda and other islands. Get it? Bermuda shorts? (I bought them for $9 at a J.Crew store in the States during the absolute bottom of the ecomomic collapse last year.)

In a floor-to-ceiling mirror, I caught an image of the ensemble and realized how undiscriminating I had been. A couple exercisers tried not to stare.

For a moment I wondered what they were thinking but quickly decided I didn't care. I was comfortable in my Bermuda shorts. I am comfortable at the gym.

I am now a shameless regular.

One against 73,000

I aim to work out this week more than usual.

I have a reason.

I'm a little scared of something that's coming up. Actually, a lot scared.

On Sunday I am going to a place where grown men, and women, bark. Not at each other but at the scene unfolding in the green bowl below.

These people wear masks, transforming into over-sized, rabid bulldogs.

They wear brown and orange.

The testerone, and the alcohol-soaked hopelessness, will be plainly seen and felt - in the beer line, in the line-up for the washroom, even in the parking lot.

In my time in various NFL stadiums, I have heard death threats rain down on those stupid enough to wear the colours of the opposing team. I have heard epithets that rhyme the name of the opposing team with the perceived sexual orientation of the person wearing that team's jersey. I have considered peeing my own pants instead of jostling for elbow room with 250-pound factory workers lining up at the trough.

This Sunday I am going to Cleveland to watch my favourite team, the Minnesota Vikings, play the Browns. I think I am sitting in a section known as the Dawg Pound.

If you're a hardcore football fan like I am, if you feel only relief or despair on Sundays, if you are a regular visitor to your team's hometown newspaper NFL blog, if you can tolerate TV people like Shannon Sharpe and Keyshawn Johnson and Ron Jaworski tell you what the game is about, and if it's rare that your favourite team plays within a four-and-a-half-hour drive, then you go to Cleveland.

Here's the problem, why I want my reflexes a little more tuned, my muscles a little more pumped:

When my team does something good on the field, I will be that guy dumb enough to rise from a crowd of 73,000 enemy and scream my approval. I can't help it. And I am afraid that when told to shut up or sit down or called a Vi-Queen, I will blurt "Suck it!" or "Brady Quinn has an IQ of 23" or some such. And then it's anyone's guess what will happen. But I should be ready.