Muscle Beach is to people watching what Jersey Shore is to reality television. It's a freaking car crash but although you know you should look away - if only for your own sanity - it's impossible. It's hypnotic. Riveting. Voyeurism at its best, worst, and sweatiest.
Situated towards the north end of the Bondi Beach promenade, just down from North Bondi Italian, is a (really pretty poxy) outdoor gym, the sort that was huge during the lycra tang of the mid-80's but which lacks any kind of relevance in today's society. Or . . . does it?
For Muscle Beach, as it's known to locals, is always stuffed full of absurdly muscled gym junkies. Bulging, flexing Hulks with purple skin and screaming veins doing chin-ups, dips, press-ups and other exercises I'm not muscly enough to name. I once saw a guy in those teeny marathon shorts doing squats. Gods, the horror.
The existence of such a place shouldn't be a surprise, located as it is in Sydney's narcissistic epicentre, but it's just so, I don't know . . . weird. That said, I wouldn't change it for the world. It's fifty kinds of rad.
I haven't been able to snap a picture of the place yet. It's hard to get a photo of the clots of straining, preening Charles Atlases without looking like a 90-pound pervert. read more