Muscle Beach

Marvelling at gymnastic displays in Hackney.

Beginning in the 1930s, as the cult of healthy living continued to spread across the United States, a handful of gymnasts and athletes began to gather on the beaches of Santa Monica to practise human pyramids, and throngs flocked to watch bronzed babes perform tricks. Inspired by the 1932 Los Angeles Olympic Games, the city installed a wooden platform, parallel bars and a set of rings. Muscle Beach was born. 

Although Angelinos did not invent open-air exercise – the ancient Greeks had their gymnasia of adonises, after all – today’s en plein air gyms appear to be a response to Muscle Beach. Spectatorship became integral to such demonstrations of physical prowess. To train outside is to be watched. 

In London, which lacks both sandy beaches and consistent heat, outdoor gyms dot the city’s many parks. Londoners like to ogle as much as anyone, and there is a pocket in London Fields that some refer to as Muscle Beach. Nestled between the play area and the bike racks stand pull-up bars of various heights and one set of parallel bars. It is an unassuming outfit, modest in stature, but day in and day out, sunshine or grey, the rudimentary equipment draws a crowd, mostly male, a siren song of metal and matting. 

One Saturday in April, I joined Jonah, Dan, and Ryan as they stretched next to the parallel bars. All three are in their thirties and look like guys whose relationship to exercise is fringe, but not extracurricular. The vibe was London by way of Spike Jonze’s Video Days. 

While happy to make space for me, they were wary, and no one would provide their last name or any real identifying details. ‘Dude, we don’t like journalists,’ said Dan, only half joking, his long hair tucked into the hood of his sweatshirt.

‘Yeah, what’s your angle?’ asked Ryan, pulling a baseball cap further down his brow. 

Most people like to talk, and despite their bluster, these men were no exception. Although they were vocally anti-establishment, I learned they all live near the park and work in creative industries. Dan, who is in film, grew up in California but has been in London for over a decade. He also breakdances. Jonah, the youngest of the three, is an Australian music producer here on a Youth Mobility Scheme visa. In his spare time, he volunteers with young offenders. Even Ryan, who waved off every personal question and kept giving fake names, admitted he was a designer born in Essex. 

They told me they had started exercising at what they call The Bars during the 2020 lockdowns because there wasn’t much else to do and that was the best way to spend time with other people. ‘Or we could have stayed home getting fat watching Netflix,’ said Dan, with a laugh.

‘We committed to being here,’ Ryan explained, and in the ensuing years, a few guys turned into several dozen. The Bars became their clubhouse, what Southbank is to the skateboarders. On weekends, for hours on end, they come to exercise, chat shit, get stoned and repeat. Almost everyone lives in the neighbourhood. Why else would one seek out this trifle of metal if not for convenience and community?

At The Bars, there is no schedule or system, the guys simply take turns using the equipment. Ryan told me, ‘It’s quite egalitarian, everyone’s on the level.’ The fact that they have different capabilities doesn’t matter. ‘This is a real safe space,’ said Dan, ‘where you can share anything you want.’ 

That safe space extends to everyone and anyone who wants to participate. ‘Really, all kinds of cats,’ he added, explaining that the regulars work out with teenagers and geriatrics; ‘billionaire tech nerds and kids from the estate’; dancers, acrobats, and on occasion, a pro-football player, though they wouldn’t say who. There are men covered in tattoos and those who are always shirtless. People of colour, people speaking different languages, the maladroit, the buff.

A friend told me that the weirdest exercise groups he ever encountered were in London, though as a native of San Francisco, where exercise is both an aesthetic and rallying cry, I would have to disagree. He was talking about the very existence of such a group, which in a place like San Francisco, a silver flash of a city, is less necessary. At home, I run into people all the time, which is nice up to a point. I dream of escaping an ex-boyfriend’s mom or tedious former classmates. London’s enormity, as such, can be freeing but also lonely. Jonah told me he first started frequenting The Bars after he moved to the city and needed friends. ‘It’s so important to be rooted in your community,’ he said as he totted up reps using sticks as pips. ‘To know people on the street.’

I asked if he would seek out the same sort of group once he returned to Australia in August. He waited until he finished another round of press-ups before saying, ‘I’ve realised this is what I need to stay active, this community. I am motivated by community.’

As with any locker room, there is a lot of trash-talking and ribbing at The Bars. When I was there, the only girl in a sea of men, one guy asked for my number, another gave me his, a third proffered his Instagram handle even after I said I had none (‘You never know,’ except that I did). 

Dan and Jonah joked that I was writing a hit piece – ‘She’s our friend but she hates us,’ they repeated with an eye roll. Everyone I spoke to was quick to stake a claim for The Bars and its social importance. In a moment where headline after headline bemoans the loneliness crisis, here are people working to make and maintain connections. 

That doesn’t mean they are all friends, far from it, and certainly, some people were friendlier, others more taciturn. ‘We all have different points of view,’ said Dan, who took pains to underline that his sense of The Bars was his own. ‘There are some hard ass motherfuckers and some people like me, and we all have different experiences. I wouldn’t want to give the impression that I represent people.’

At the end of my first afternoon hanging at The Bars, I was invited to come back and work out with everyone the following day. ‘It’ll be great for your story!’ they teased as I packed up my notebook. 

But when I arrived at noon on Sunday, Dan and Ryan were shocked: ‘We were just saying, “What are the chances that journalist shows” and then, here you are!’ 

Rap blared out of tiny speakers. A weed cloud engulfed the parallel bars. I had missed Jonah by twenty minutes. ‘A few guys rolled in straight from the club,’ explained Dan with a grin.

My initial visit to The Bars coincided with the first truly warm day of the year. Gals were outfitted in corsets and minidresses; there were short shorts, slinky tops, leather, pleather, silk. Somewhere, pale skin was singed pink. Since London Fields is such a catwalk, I had assumed these men were willing participants. Turns out, they hate the gawking. ‘A lot of people see it as a zoo, because it’s public,’ said Dan in a tone that was equal parts strident and sage. ‘But actually, it’s an exercise in humility. People project their insecurities onto this thing, onto us.’

Although happy to go over what activities strengthen which muscles, Ryan ignored all questions meant to illuminate anything about his life or character. It was an interesting play given that he always made himself available to chat and, dressed in form-fitting vests, was very much willing to put himself on display. But nakedness takes many forms and Ryan would not or could not share a kernel of himself. 

Emotional and physical exposure demand different things of a person, distinctions that often fall along gendered lines. Despite how often I cycle by The Bars, the thought of pulling over has never once crossed my mind. There is a reason that many women exercise in dimly lit rooms, and I have not yet transcended such self-consciousness. I, like many women, live in horror of acknowledging that the body must be maintained; and yet maintain it I must for society and, I suppose, to stave off type two diabetes. Once, after a few months doing Pilates, an ex-boyfriend playfully told me I was ripped. I have never desired any compliment less.

For all their inclusivity, The Bars is a predominantly male space perhaps because, as the guys told me, most women aren’t trying to get jacked. The few women I did see were only there for a laugh, having sauntered up with their partners in tow. They would dangle for a second, their floral dresses rippling in the breeze. After all, it is the peacock who flaunts his brilliant plumage, not the peahen. 

Although he doubted whether I would actually show, Dan did bring a set of stretchy bands to improve my pull-up chances. These he looped around a bar, and as I stepped into the red elastic, my legs jack-knifed forward. For an instant, it felt possible to realise that primary school dream of swinging over the top. 

Standing in the band was a bit like having a muscular assistant, and I could just about lift myself up. Sans band, my scapula hardly moved, not even a finger twitch of action. I tried again. Was that the most meagre of lifts? ‘We’re here most weekends,’ Ryan said as I dismounted several attempts and one-quarter of a pull-up later. ‘Perhaps you should make it a goal for the year to do one.’ I didn’t have the heart to tell him my New Year’s resolution had been to learn to paint my nails. 

It’s the end of the summer. The days are thick with heat and the sound of hijacked Lime bikes click-clacking around the city. Across the Channel, half-naked athletes compete for Olympic medals. The French have united behind Léon Marchand, the world behind the pole vaulter with the enormous dick. Incredible power is on constant, astonishing display.

In London Fields, the wildflowers bloom in Impressionist meadows, and leather jackets and low-slung jeans have been replaced by bikini tops, languid picnics, cold beers. Shoulders take the colour of a nicely seared steak. It is time for Jonah’s departure.

The men do lunges and star jumps at The Bars. They pantomime skipping rope. Nearly everyone is shirtless in this weather, skin slick, their hair tied back in buns. They are joined by groups of children basking in six weeks of freedom. The kids romp around the park and grab at the posts, clamouring to do tricks. But the towering metal remains ever so slightly out of reach, so their eyes follow the men of The Bars, superheroes and gods incarnated right here in Hackney. Arms stretch high, hands grasp at empty air. I know exactly how they feel. 

Under a blazing sun, men sprawl about. Every now and again, one gets up, and with the encouragement of his peers, does several muscle-ups or a series of hanging leg raises. Golden light glints off The Bars – and the men hang on.