Ft Benning With Central Air, or At Medical Gunpoint
Written: Jun 27 '00 (Updated Jun 27 '00)
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Product Rating:
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Pros: Nice dedicated people running a clean, state of the art shop
Cons: Damn the necessity that brought me here!
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| mshawpyle's Full Review: 24 Hour Fitness |
It would be cheap and easy — in other words, it would be just like me and my usual shtick — simply to have smart-aleck fun with this review.
It would also be wrong.
God Knows I'm A Newbie...
Look, I have always loathed, hated, despised, and recoiled from exercise — and that includes seven years of football and my days in the Army. Even when I tried some exercise of late (see my review on the K2 inline skates: it's hilarious, at least, if not helpful), I indulged in all the sloth and procrastination available to mankind. I have always regarded this carcass of mine as a mere support system for the brain: give me mens sana and you could keep the in corpore part.
So once again, I am not writing as anything but the merest tyro, for the benefit of other couch or computer-chair potatoes. ('Tubers of the world unite! You have nothing to lose but your pounds!')
Why I Went
Simple: medical gunpoint.
With yet another unrelished birthday fast approaching, it was time and past time to take stock. So I said to myself (you recall what a $@!%*# Self can be: qv my Romance Mix review), 'Self,' says I, 'we'd best get ourself to the vet for a physical.' '"Vet" is right,' Self said snidely. 'Find one with a large-animal practice. Percherons, maybe....' (I told you Self was a $@!%*#.)
Undaunted, I dragged myself to the medico's office (not, alas, Selflessly). Within five minutes, and without awaiting tests, the good doctor, ah, weighed in with a few home truths.
'You need to modify your diet and take exercise.'
'Well, Doctor, I do try —'
'No. Self-directed is not for you. You will put it off and read a book instead.'
'Busted,' Self cackled.
'What you need to do is join a gym, with a personal trainer, and —'
'Wait a minute, Doc. You're asking me voluntarily to hire a drill sergeant? Been there done that didn't re-up —'
'I'm not asking you, I'm telling you. You can do this now or have the bypass later.'
'Um, well, if you put it that way....'
'I do put it that way. And who knows,' said the physician St Luke. 'You might meet someone. You need someone in your life, too: this is not doing you any good, this being alone.'
'I'd like to see a pharmacy that carries that remedy,' Self shot back.
'Well, but Doc —'
Resistance was, in the event, futile. Fear is a remarkable motivator. Cholesterol off the chart, the Old Man's having had a bypass his own self, stress: Daktari managed to, er, persuade me that my risk was sufficient to justify the remedy.
The First Faltering Step
So off we trekked, Self and I, to the local, halfway-between-the-office-and-the-house, 24 Hour Fitness club.
With a couple of possible exceptions Self and I have agreed not to discuss, walking through that door, even with an appointment, was about the toughest threshold I've ever crossed.
Why? Well, allow Self to answer that. You have got to be kidding me. That's the one with the plate glass windows everyone strolls past, right? Great — they can all walk and gawk, maybe sing a rousing chorus of 'How Much Is That Piglet in the Window?' or something. And what do they have across the entrance, anyway? 'Arbeit Macht Frei' or 'Lasciate Ogni Speranze Voi Ch' Entrate'? You're a sedentary intellectual: they'll just love that. And you'll be like Gulliver in Brobdingnag: surrounded by Very Large People Who Grunt. What happened to that vow anyway, that once you were in civvies you'd never do PT again? And another thing —'
Self, in case you hadn't noticed, is trying to kill me.
Kind, Courteous, &c
As it happens, Self was wrong. No one sneered. Everyone is appallingly polite, kind, articulate, and apparently well-read, even people with legs like tree trunks and hands like Smithfield hams. Sure, they all look like they belong to a different and higher species than Self and I, but they have made it their objective to change that, or rather, to change me and Self.
The facility itself is vast, attractive, sparkling, and far too well lit for me, thank you: I want a dark corner until some results transpire. With the exception of the well-lit part ('Do you know how many calories there are in alcohol!?! Tsk, tsk'), 'vast, attractive, and cleanly' describes the staff and the clientele (barring of course misfits such as a certain sedentary military historian you all know and love, ahem).
And they are wired: within hours of signup, you will have an email with directions to their website, and all sorts of eye-glazing but nicely presented info.
What It's Like
So, fellow couch-taters, follow me on the quick tour.
The sign-up process is as painless as anesthesia (you remember her: the Tsar's daughter?): you go in and a young demigod or -goddess explains the possible packages carefully and clearly. This is good. You may still have no idea what is being discussed, but that would be your fault.
After shedding a considerable amount of weight and girth in the wallet area (seriously, though, it's a lot cheaper than a bypass), you will be gently cross-examined about your habits and lifestyle. ('What has kept you from exercising in the past?' 'Sloth and gluttony.') Assuming you are in dire enough straits to be there in the first place (again, mind you, I am addressing my fellow Idaho bakers of the divan), you will if you are wise have signed up for the 24-5 accelerated program, whereunder you are assisted in creating a diet and are assigned a personal trainer.
Your first session will consist of embarrassed discussions with your trainer, regarding your motivation ('Uh, medical gunpoint'), goals ('Survival.' 'Bull,' Self interjected: 'what you're really after is painless instantaneous transformation'), eating habits ('Well, sir, we want to create something you can live with and enjoy ... but I'm afraid there are no such things as Diet Bourbon or low-fat chickenfried steak'), level of sheer laziness, and the like. This is followed by the blood pressure reading ('Um, wow. No, no, never mind...') and the Trip to Bountiful on the scales ('Mmmhmm. You can open your eyes now, sir'). Then there's the calipers ('Are you sure those suckers'll stretch that far?') for the body fat measurement ('I'll be back in a minute sir — someone took my slide rule'). And the Tale of the Tape ('You could always just call my tailor.' 'Oh, he's on standby, sir: in a month, he'll have a lot of alterations to make.' 'Flattery will get you anywhere,' mutters Self).
This is followed by Exercise 101. First there is the discussion as to how the sessions will be broken down. (That may not be the best-omened phrase, come to think of it.) Then comes the Introduction to Machines Built By the Spanish Inquisition. It is at this point that one begins to see the real worth of the trainer, not only as tutor, but as shield, because of course this where one really notices how infinitely superior everyone else in the entire complex looks to oneself.
After the resistance session comes the cardio. 'Gee, rat on a treadmill: just like the office,' Self had to say. Again, this is tough not for merely physical reasons ('Too fast?' 'No, you forget: I have a Lab who walks me'), but because one is in the window staring back at passers by, feeling rather like a Bradenham ham on display at Fortnum & Mason's.
Afterwards, the trainer lies flatteringly about how well you're going to do — no, that's unfair, and it's a poor jest: he means it, and means to assure it, as after all he is the carver of your (Winnie Ille) Pu-like unshaped block, and it all reflects upon him. You then swear to be good until the next session, walk steadily and without any sign of exhaustion past the long, long window until you are out of sight, and collapse, writhing in agony. (OK, that was my one real cheap shot, but at least it was at mine own expense.)
Early Results (Results May Vary; No Warranty Is Made or Implied; See Package For Details; Void Where Prohibited)
The point is this, on balance. I've dropped three pounds in less than a week ('Wow, three whole percent of the goal,' Self sneered. Self exaggerates). I feel better. OK, you could do that at any gym, I'm sure. The point is, I — and I'm willing to bet some of my fellow pommes de terres du chaise longue — could only do that at a welcoming, understanding, round-the-clock schedule-fitting, accepting sort of spot that has articulate people, sensible management and goals, and the sort of Web presence that appeals to those of us who are becoming integrated with our own PCs and growing an umbilical coaxial cable.
And that, my fellow sofa-spuds, is what these good and kindly folk are, do, and offer. You owe it to yourself to do something: this may be your likeliest way.
Recommended:
Yes
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Epinions.com ID:
mshawpyle
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Member: Markham Shaw Pyle, JD
Location: Houston, Texas
Reviews written: 539
Trusted by: 391 members
About Me:
Historian, baseballing bon vivant, Boll Weevil, W&L man; and the Walter Mitty of field sports
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