Uranus Fitness

It’s time to admit it: I can’t workout at home. I have the weights, I have the time, but it still doesn’t happen. Somehow, it’s easier for me to drive to a gym than it is to walk down the stairs.

I’m not alone in this problem. Master Arden, my Taekwon-do instructor, had to get a gym membership. This man has 24-hour access to his own martial arts studio that is equipped with a killer set of dumbbells, all the workout gear you could need, and it’s private. No waiting for broccoli heads to get off the bench press or wiping some stranger’s sweat off the equipment.

But whenever he goes in there, he gets caught up in the business side of running his Taekwon-do school, responding to emails, arranging tournaments, doing taxes… anything but working out. Despite being about the most disciplined man I know, he can’t force himself to workout there. He needs to go to a gym, and I do too.

Treason

I found my new gym through a brazen act of disloyalty.

I want to protect the identity of the honest—but treasonous—young man in this anecdote, so I must employ a clever pseudonym for the gym he works at. We’ll go with Uranus Fitness. (It’s actually very close to its real name, though I very much doubt the people on the branding team would agree.)

I decided to checkout Uranus Fitness because it’s got a cheap monthly rate and it’s near at hand. I told the guy at the door I wanted to take a look around, and I fully intended on enrolling right on the spot if everything was in order.

But I soon came back to him and said, “Hey there, I got a couple questions.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I noticed that the dumbbells only go up to 75. Is there another rack that I missed?”

“Nope,” he said. “That’s all they got here.”

“No big deal… I guess,” I said. “Um… I also see that there are tons of cages for squats and bench press, which is great. But all the bars are on those, like, rails or guideposts.”

“They’re called smith racks.”

“Cool. Smith racks. But are there any benches or cages where the bar is just free? So you can do, like, a true free squat or bench press?”

“Nope.”

“Really. I’ve just… I’ve never seen that.”

“Yeah, it’s, like, the Uranus Fitness philosophy. I don’t agree with it. You should go to Crunch.”

“What?”

“Crunch. It’s up in Beacon Hill.”

“You’re telling me to go to another gym?”

“This place is for beginners, man. They don’t want to scare new people off with free weights.”

“I see. What did you say this other place is called again? Crunch?”

“Yeah. The dumbbells go to, like, 130, or something, and they only cost a dollar more a month. That’s where you want to go.”

So I slipped out of Uranus and headed to Crunch. While I don’t approve of outright sedition, this young man’s advice was greatly appreciated and spot on. A similar tour of Crunch revealed a gym built by and for gym rats.

Fear

I’m always scared walking into a new gym. It’s an unfamiliar setting, and everybody is walking around so cocksure of themselves. My inner dialogue starts nagging me:

• Will I use a piece of equipment wrong?

• Will everyone laugh at me when I do?

• Will I violate this particular gym’s etiquette?

• Will everyone laugh at me when I do?

• Will everyone laugh at me… just because?

With some Googling today, I found out this social anxiety is called the Spotlight Effect: thinking that everyone is watching you and making note of all your flaws in appearance and behavior. Bingo, that’s me. But I’m 50 now, old enough to know this is all in one’s head, so I was kind of hoping that spotlight thing would go away. I’m afraid that particular software update is still pending.

But I probably deserve it. I believe the Spotlight Effect sticks with me because I’m always spotlighting other people. I started doing it my first day at Crunch.

There was a guy on a bench right next to me who cracks off a loud tongue click every single time he adds a plate to the bar. It seemed like a self-satisfied declaration to each 45 plate as he slid it into place: Yup, I’m gonna lift you too, mister. Every time: clonk goes the plate, click goes the tongue. I wonder if he knows he does that.

And on the other side, I had a girl who adjusts her ponytail in a highly performative manner three times between sets. She faces the mirror, stands tall, thrusts her chest out, and reaches behind her head, tugging a bit of her ponytail in opposite directions, re-cinching the elastic. Three times between every set. Never once or twice. Three.

I’ve already assigned them names, Clickety-Clonk and Preeny McSeeMe, and if they’re regulars, it won’t be long before they’ve got jobs, families, significant others… I create entire histories and backstories for these folks when I’m resting between sets or laboring on the treadmill. Naturally, I wonder if I have a name from them. And what is it? Do I have a job too? Is it more interesting than the job I’m actually in?

Lest you think me a purely critical person, I should mention I’ve got heroes at the gym too. I saw this one dude about my age, trim as a gymnast and lifting heavy, taking the 120 lbs. dumbbells for a ride on the incline bench. Damn. He’ll be Max Jackington.

And there’s a pudgy guy working the heavy bag who’s got footwork like Fred Astaire. Guy’d hit me four times before I knew we were fighting. He’s Butterbean Bojangles. And I can tell you right now, they’ll be cast in tales of achievement and glory that their real selves would find enviable.

The Bobby and the Glorious House of Gains

Now that I have the membership, the true struggle begins: getting there. No matter how punishing the workout, it’s never as difficult as picking up the keys and opening the front door. I use a lot of self-talk to get myself over there, and it’s usually in the voice of this YouTube personality that popped up in my Facebook nearly a decade ago. The dude’s name is Robert Frank. He always calls the gym the Glorious House of Gains (gains as in, the advancements in strength and size from weightlifting).

I’m sure his persona is as fake as a professional wrestler. His roid-raging rants are filled with little aphorisms like Swole is the Goal and Size is the Prize. He extols the value of Chest Day, refuses to acknowledge the existence of Leg Day, and he encourages everyone to don their extra smedium T-shirt to show off their pumped-up guns. It’s ridiculous (and, trigger warning, expletive filled), but it’s kind of catchy and inspirational too.

I’ve been calling the gym the Glorious House of Gains ever since I saw the vids years ago. And when my alarm goes off, I still envision his stern countenance and hear his bellows urging me to greatness: Wake up, Adam! It’s gains o’clock! Swole is the goal! Size is the prize! Let’s GOOOO!!

Robert Frank just took one of the many gym types and played it out to the extreme. There really are some guys in there doing roids and who-knows-what-else chasing bigger gains. There is in every gym. Just like there’s always an 80-year-old man in short shorts, selfie kings, selfie queens, phone-zombies who post but never lift… it’s like a soap opera; the names may be different, but the same characters are always there.

But my favorite of all types is The Bobby, and I’m really hoping that Crunch has got a resident Bobby patrolling the floor.

Bobby is the guy who’s just so darn happy to be at the gym, and so happy that you’re at the gym, that he needs to express it every time you cross paths, either vocally or with a Handshake 2.0, i.e., the fist bump.

Most gyms come equipped with a Bobby. The best Bobby I ever had was two gyms ago. His actual name was Bobby, and he was so effective in his role that his name became the noun to refer to this type. He had one annoying habit that made him a bit hard to handle, which I’ve recounted in the harrowing tale My Naked Buddy, but apart from that he was a true gem.

Bobby could never remember my name, or if he did, he never used it, referring to me as Buddy, often twice in one sentence. Though Buddy has a diminutive connotation, it was never that way with Bobby. The word was pure friendship and camaraderie coming from him.

• Hey, Buddy! Good to see you today. Really is!

• Hey, Buddy! Is that five days I seen you in here this week? Keep it rollin’, Buddy!

• Whatcha gettin’ after today, Buddy? Pecs? Right on, Buddy!

• Saw you lightin’ up that squat rack. Way to go, Buddy!

And even though everyone in the gym got the same rally cries from Bobby, it never felt diminished by the time it rolled around to me. Bobby’s enthusiasm felt like the approval of a loving God.

One day, Bobby saw me complete a truly grueling workout, and when I was finished, he beamed at me with his winning smile, shook his head, and said, “Nice work, bro.” That promotion from Buddy to Bro… it was a greater prize than an Olympic gold medal.

I would like to be like Bobby. His exuberant love for the gym and everyone in it. Bobby gives everyone a jovial greeting and encouraging word because to Bobby, we’re all on the same team. We’re all here in the Glorious House of Gains pursuing fitness. Bobby believes that we’re all going to achieve our goals, and he lives in a perpetual celebration of our present and future accomplishments.

And why not? Every single person in the gym had the option of not coming today. Every one of them had excellent rationales for putting it off till later, tomorrow, or the 12^th of Never. Regardless of where they are on the fitness journey, Bobby sees dozens of victorious men and women who won the battle today, and he stands like the greeter at the Heavenly Gates to say: Welcome! Welcome all to the Glorious House of Gains! Come, let us partake of these cables and this steel in this hallowed place, for we are all of us conquerors. It’s gains o’clock, my friends! Let’s GO!

I have this unbridled enthusiasm and camaraderie in my heart, but there are certain settings where I am intimidated and fearful of social interaction, and the gym is one of them. Put me behind a bar or give me a waiter’s apron, and I can Bobby with the best of them, but I’m dumb as a stone in the gym. I have great appreciation and admiration for all the Bobbies, but I am not able to fill the role myself.

My hope is that there is a natural Bobby at Crush, one who will buoy my spirits through his exuberance for simply being in the gym. And I’m hoping to see all the usual types, and perhaps a few more that I have not run across yet. It’s all a part of the excitement that comes with a new membership to another Glorious House of Gains.