GTL

            The idea of joining a gym was entirely my wife’s, though as it turned out, my resistance proved

minimal.  There was a certain appeal, provided we could find the right facility.  As I’ve gotten older,

health and fitness have become more of a struggle—and a gym membership seemed like a good means

of addressing it.

         I learned that outside the basic concept of providing a space and equipment for exercise, gyms take on many forms.  My wife, ever thorough, made some calls and took a few visits before compiling a list of finalists.  At that point, I was brought in to help make the decision.  Our first stop was reasonably convenient and was in a repurposed former sporting goods store.

        There, I was introduced to Don, the man my wife had met during her preliminary research.  Don was a trim, middle-aged man who was wearing a black knit shirt and matching track pants.  His skin was deeply bronzed, and he spoke in quick bursts with an East Coast accent.

         Don led us on a  tour of the facility, which was actually quite nice.  The shoe department was now a core training area, and the cash registers had been replaced by stationary bicycles.  In addition to the standard resistance and cardio equipment, the club also offered a lap pool, hot tub, steam room, sauna, group fitness studios, a women’s only facility, and tanning beds. 

         When the tour concluded, we returned to Don’s desk for the inevitable hard peddle.  His chair faced out, allowing him a view of the main room.  Looking out across the expanse, he challenged us to find anybody waiting for a machine.  We could not, even though it was the middle of the after work rush.  He also pointed out that all of the equipment was new and top of the line, and that he had personally acquired each piece of it. Incidentally, he purchased all of the equipment at the nearby Bally’s.  He also drove a Porsche.  While this last piece of information seemed irrelevant, he mentioned it no fewer than five times during our hour together.        

To his credit, Don appeared to be in very good shape.  Though I don’t recall asking, he shared with us his secret for physical fitness, which remarkably, was the combination of a good diet and regular exercise.  He stood and raised the leg of his track pants to reveal bulging calf muscles.  When Don wasn’t tooling around in his Porsche and looking for state of the art exercise equipment to purchase, he taught a spinning class.  “Spinning”, I learned, is a more concise way of saying “riding a stationary bicycle.”

         Because he is in the fitness business, Don was required to ask my wife and me about our goals.  My wife had put some thought into this and was candid when asked.  I, on the other hand, was not interested in indulging his gymspeak.

         “You got a six-pack, Steve?” asked Don.

         I know a trap question when I hear one, and wasn’t about to take the bait.  I was no Fat Albert, but there was no way in hell that I had six-pack abs and Don knew this.  I had seen enough of his calves in the past hour to last me a lifetime; I didn’t need him lifting his shirt, too.

         “I think I’ve got a couple of bottles left in the fridge from last weekend,” I cracked, eliciting a chuckle from Don, though I couldn’t tell if it was genuine.       

Suitably impressed with the club and its amenities, it was time to talk business.  There's nothing like taut, UV-baked calves and braggadocious talk of Porches from middle-aged alpha males to make me want to take on lengthy commitments and write sizable checks. 

       “This is an investment,” said Don solemnly as he passed a scrap of paper with a figure scratched upon it.  “In you.”

         As trite and rehearsed as that was, I recognized a kernel of truth in it.  For a moment, I imagined embracing the gym lifestyle, and if I were to squint hard enough, I could see myself looking like an “after” photo in one of those fitness ads.  I coalesced.   

While we were feeling the monetary burn, we signed my wife up for a series of sessions with a personal trainer.  As it turns out, having somebody count crunches for you and crack wise while you do lunges is not an inexpensive service.  A contract was signed and my wife was presented with a large box of high-protein snacks and supplements in the form of pills the size of Matchbox cars.

         Excited about our impending new lifestyle, my wife bought a new gym bag and combination lock as we were becoming the couple that would learn to eschew brunch with friends on a Saturday morning to hit the gym athen stop by Jamba Juice on the way home for smoothies loaded with a litany of boosters.

        

         The following Monday, we went to the gym for the first time as members. For my wife, it was the first session with her trainer.  I was going freelance.  When we arrived, the gym was buzzing with activity.

         For whatever reason, after such initial optimism, I was appalled.  Music blared.  Big, red, sweaty guys in modified tank tops clutched personal water reservoirs in thick, gloved hands.  People stomped on treadmills and peddled stationary bikes.  I told my wife to take as long as she wanted; I’d wait in the car.  I was reminded of high school gym class when I’d stand along the wall with the stoners and nerds while the boisterous boys would jettison their shirts and flock to the bench press where they’d throw on the 45s and disregard every tenant of exercise science in order to impress each other.

         About an hour later, my wife came to the car on wobbly legs.  Her face was flushed, and she appeared to be occupying the middle ground on the Wong-Baker pain scale .  She stretched her arms constantly as she drove us home. I sat in the passenger's seat consumed with regret.  I was sure I’d made a huge mistake.

        

While no amount of calf-flexing seemed likely to convince me to become a Mr. Universe contender, I knew that the situation would require a degree of compromise on my part.  First of all, it was too hot for me to wait in the car for an hour every afternoon.  Secondly, there was that significant upfront investment I’d made in myself.  This is how gyms thrive financially.  A large, one-time initiation fee, then month after month of auto drafts fly out of your checking account as you vow to climb back on the wagon as soon as life calms down a bit.

         This business model is similar to that of community colleges.  People pony up under the auspice of improving themselves, and for a month or so they turn up early, pay attention, ask questions, and stay late.  Then by midterms, the lecture halls are at less than half capacity, and the bursar’s office is overrun with requests for refunds.

         I knew that regardless of my perceptions, I needed to find a way to make this work.  Maybe a high percentage of people that frequent health clubs are clowns, but I had paid my money, got my t-shirt, and had a membership card on my key ring.  Damn it, I belonged.

         Vowing to give it an honest try, the next day while my wife went off to work with her trainer, I put on my headphones and began with cardio, working my way through the treadmill elliptical machine.

         At some point during her session, my wife managed to mention that I had never received my complimentary evaluation from a personal trainer. This had been promised when we signed our contracts. 

         One of the personal trainers approached me as I was riding the stationary bicycle spinning.  Moments later, we were sitting across from each other at a desk within the trainers’ cubicle.  The desk was covered with fitness magazines and trial-size packages of various supplements.

         In the common theme among trainers, we discussed goals.

         “Let’s be realistic,” I said when addressing the clichéd question.  “I’m on the wrong side of thirty and married.  Trying to look like that dude would be a complete waste of time,” I reasoned, pointing to the ripped, bronzed guy on the cover of one of the magazines.

         “My goal,” I continued, “is more modest.  You know those stories on the local news about obesity--where they show just the mid-sections of fat people?  I never want to see one of those reports and recognize myself in the file footage.  And I still want to eat and drink whatever I like.”

         Next, my body mass index was measured by pinching my “common problem areas” with calipers. To my surprise, my BMI was pretty low for the amount of beer and tacos I consume, and overall I was determined to be in good shape.  Some personal training sessions, I was told, could really take me to the next level.  And that was the crux of the complimentary evaluation.  Even when used often, gym memberships are loss leaders; personal training sessions are the high-end profit centers.

         “Let’s see how Ol’ Moose does with my wife first,” I reasoned, gesturing to the trainer who was guiding my wife through what appeared to be a very uncomfortable drill involving a large inflatable ball.

         We were wrapping up the consultation with some idle prattle when I exchanged greetings with a guy emerging from the tanning beds.  He was wearing a modified tank top that revealed a shaved chest and a pair of gold hoops that hung like miniature door knocks from his pepperoni-colored nipples.

         “You know him?” asked the trainer with a raised eyebrow.

         “Yeah, I’ve played hockey with him.” I mentioned this thinking that being involved in such a rugged sport might raise my credibility around the squat rack.  This was not the case, as apparently male titty rings were a form of leprosy at this particular club.

         This guy—who was a perfectly nice person as far as I knew—and his bold accessories had been a topic of discussion around the trainers’ cubicle for some weeks and I was pressed for more information.  Health club scuttlebutt—I would find out from my wife—was every bit as juicy and salacious as it was in more traditional circles. There were several rumours about Don, his calves, and his Porsche.  

         *****

The layout of the club’s main floor was ideal for sociological studies and people watching in general.  When using an elliptical machine, I had a perfect view of the entire room and its microcosmic caste system.  To either side of me were the cardio machines, and directly in front were the resistance machines.  This was sort of a commons area—novices, dabblers, and social butterflies gravitated toward this area.  

Across the room was an open area with a rack made of PVC pipe that held a variety of  medicine balls, kettlebells, elastic bands, and other assorted core training equipment. This area was frequented by the more cutting edge fitness enthusiasts. Pretty much every person working out in that area appeared to be in tremendous physical shape.  

To the left was the rubber floored, floor-to-ceiling mirrored domain of the plateheads.  Plateheads showed no interest in any other parts of the facility.  They invariably scanned in and bolted for the free weights where they often stood around congratulating themselves and occasionally working in a set or two.  Good form was rarely emphasized.

       

A number of club members sought out dual purpose in their memberships.  That is, in addition to working out, they used it as a dating service.  In particular, a young woman that looked like a softer Paris Hilton who would show up each day around 5:30 wearing perfectly coordinated clothing.  She would loiter in the commons—usually near the assisted pull-up machine.  Often within five minutes of her arrival, she would attract the attention of at least one man.  I never saw her actually exercise.

         One afternoon, I was on the elliptical next to a line of three attractive women.  A platehead took notice and headed over to use the leg press that was positioned directly in front of the women.  Looking ridiculous in a ripped t-shirt and insufficient striped lycra shorts, he deliberately and audibly hovered and stretched.  Before climbing on the machine, he casually tossed to the floor a money clip which had a one-hundred dollar bill on the outside and likely ten ones beneath it. 

         I realize there are a number of reasons a person would need to carry a large amount of cash while working out.  Perhaps he forgot his lock to put on a locker.  You never know when you’re going to need a Muscle Milk during your workout and the change of club policy that no longer allowed members to charge drinks to their accounts was more than a minor inconvenience.

         My gut feeling is that his objective was to impress the ladies.  Unfortunately for him, they were not only unimpressed, but they seemed to make it a point to ignore him.  He did six or seven reps, picked up his cash, pulled his shorts out of his ass crack, and stomped off.

        

After a few weeks, I was starting to become more comfortable with my health club surroundings as my wife and I established a routine.  I noticed results with some increased bulk in certain areas and tone in others.  And I wasn’t the only one.

         “You’ve been doing some work, guy,” said Don, who seemed to have appeared out of thin air as I finished up on the seated curl machine. 

         “Yeah,” I responded uncomfortably.  “I’m kind of starting to like it here.”

         “You’re looking big,” he said before walking off, calves flexed.

         This was debatable, but I had discovered an outlet for physical activity.  Over time, I began to branch out and utilize some of the club's other amenities.  I even waded into the world of the Plateheads and incorporated free weights into my routine.    

         Eventually, I began using the hot tub and steam room regularly.  Swimming laps demonstrated what huge difference there is between swimming for exercise and wading out to a swim-up bar at a resort.

         The whirlpool was always a relaxing way to conclude a workout, though conduct tended to be sketchy at times.  One evening, a man and woman joined me and quickly began engaging in a boisterous pre-coital fury.  On multiple occasions, I was joined by two older guys— resembling English prog rockers from the 1970s—who would sit so closely their chest hair and chained medallions almost touched.  They laughed frequently and talked softly.  I think in German. 

         After some time on a resistance and cardio routine—and after Don’s unsolicited compliment, I became more comfortable sitting around in just my swim trunks and in the locker room and showers. 

         The balance was always subject to disruption, of course.  Men’s locker rooms can be repugnant places, depending on the occupants.  Members of the club were reasonably tidy and well-behaved in the locker room.  Still boys will be boys. One afternoon, I was leaving the showers and passed by an older guy who was standing naked in front of the mirror.  He had one foot on the counter and was buffing his gooch with a gym towel.

         Another regular at the club was an old man who I became convinced only worked out as an excuse to walk around naked in the locker room afterward. If I was similarly endowed, I’d probably have done the same thing.

I’ve never been one to concern myself with another man’s penis size, but some things command notice.   Though he was in the golden years, he seemed to take great comfort in the knowledge that these young Plateheads weren’t going to match his size regardless of what combination of supplements and stretching exercises they undertook.  I privately referred to him as “Tripod.”

 

In the weeks prior to a spring vacation, my wife suggested we take advantage of the club’s tanning equipment prior to leaving.  She reasoned this would spare us the first day sunburn when we arrived at the beach.                                                        

Admittedly, it felt awkward asking the desk girl to give me ten minutes.  My wife and I even invested in a pair of eye blinds and a specially formulated lotion.  Sure, stripping down and placing yourself in a tube full of ultra violet light bulbs for vanity purposes seems a bit like a long-term suicide mission, but moderation is the key, or so I told myself as I studied myself in the mirror, briefly contemplating a set of nipple rings.

          

         After a slow start, I reached the point where I was either running or going to the gym six days a week. I found that I craved it--physically and mentally.  Soon it took the place of the hockey league I was playing in, which had become a shitshow from an organizational standpoint. 

  Then our daughter was born and my overall fitness level has been in decline ever since.  I still get out from time to time, though not nearly as often as I’d like—even though the gym offers child care.  Month after month of auto drafts have flown out of my checking account for unused facilities, but I swear I’m going to get back into a routine once life calms down a bit.