My body is finally starting to sweat, and I wipe the drops with my
towel. Out by the weight machines, a
team of women coach each other on a leg curl apparatus. One was able to get about nine curls in before
stopping. I saw the other girl talking,
and then the first one continued slowly.
I glance at the other side of the room and see a young man in a corner,
dancing back and forth in boxing guard stance.
Then he commences to punch his imaginary opponent. A few minutes later, he wraps a resistance band
across his back and, grasping the handles, punches forward.
The resistance on my own bike
is steep, as it feels like I’m pedaling through cement. I force myself to take a deep breath in and
blow out to keep my body full of oxygen.
I refuse to let my legs slow down.
The weighted sleigh man is back to pushing his weight down the hall;
this time he is leaning forward with his head in between the bars like a yoke
on an ox.
The workout continues, and I
reach my threshold for pain more than once.
The left side of my stomach has tightened from the exertion. I’ve gotten off my bike to go refill my
bottle, waiting until I was sure sleigh man wasn’t going to plough me down on
my way to the fountain. We are entering
the cooldown phase, and my body is starting to wind down.
An African American family of
four comes from the day care center. All
except the mother are wearing t-shirts and basketball shorts. As they pass the punching bag, the younger
boy- perhaps four- stops to punch the bag.
He hits it as hard as he can and waits for it to swing back and hit him
in the head. I worry he’ll get hurt, but
the impact barely jostles him. After
letting it whack him a few times, his dad starts talking to him and shows his
son how to properly punch the bag. The
son mimics him, and after the dad walks away, the older sibling punches the bag
with him a few times before they all head home.
I can barely stand as I get
off the bike and stretch my legs. I
welcome the pain that shoots from my muscles and tendons as I lean into the
hamstring and hip flexor stretches, knowing that stretching will only make it
hurt less later.
As I am leaving, I see an
average-looking man doing advanced chin-ups that makes me stop and stare with
awe. He starts hanging from the bar,
then does a chin-up, pushes himself to the top of the bar with his arms
straight, and swings his legs forward like an acrobat on a swing. His arm strength and control is
incredible. Not wanting to be caught
staring, I walk on to sanitize my hands and go home, looking forward to a
hearty chicken dinner.
The gym is more than just a
place to get your workout done. It is
layered with people who prefer their own routine to classes, who are addicted
to Zumba, who spend all day at the gym, who wish they were somewhere else, and
who value fitness. Some members can be
rude about securing their spot in class or grabbing equipment. Others find every way to get out of working
hard. I am not sure how effective some
people’s workouts are, but they are sources for a giggle. I have come to recognize several regulars who
follow the same set schedule of classes to attend. They are the ones who catch up outside before
class starts. They’ll smile or wave at
other regulars. They have their unspoken
spots in the room. This crowd laughs and
jokes around in the middle of class, seeing their workouts not as chores but as
opportunities to have fun and enjoy friends’ company. Their warm approach to fitness has even
rubbed off on me. There is no way I will
consider my pain fun, but immersing yourself in the workout is one way to make
the time pass. Whether through passing each other on the stairs or conversing
three times a week after class, the gym is an intimate community where people’s
concerns for health and well-being unite them.
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