Twenty-two of the forty-four stairs on the climb to my new home.
As I settle into a Canadian winter, I am also slowly easing into a new daily routine – and adapting to the fact that I will be working out regularly at a different gym. Of all these changes in my life, getting used to my new temporary workout home is proving to be the hardest adjustment.
For those of us who are truly dedicated, a gym becomes a second home – and sometimes, on particularly stressful days, even a refuge from life. I have a love/hate relationship with my usual gym, a place I frequent so often that I have been asked if I sleep there. There have been a lot of changes in the past year, many of which have displeased me. But I love my trainer, and the people who are my workout companions – and most days, even the gym itself. All I have to do is walk through the door and get a whiff of that atmosphere – an atmosphere found in every good gym in which I have had the pleasure to work out – and I am home. It is, I think, a mix of one part sweat to two parts testosterone, and in the very best of gyms, breathing deeply of it invigorates me and spurs me on to work as hard as possible.
The very best of gyms… I’m sure some people have the image in their heads of a swanky “health-club”, complete with every amenity known to man. And while such a “club” may indeed, fall within the parameters of my definition, it is not the facilities to which I refer. It is, instead, a feeling. An aura, if you will. A sense that greets you at the door that here, within these walls, you will meet others who feel as you. Others who will be working hard, and sweating, and not be upset if you don’t stop to chat about the weather – though sometimes, if you’re between sets, you might. It is a place where, even if the equipment isn’t what you’re used to, you will still find everything you really need. Some weights, a pullup bar, a bench. A squat rack would be good, and maybe, too, a bench press rack… but anything beyond this? Nice to have. But necessary? No.
The very best of gyms… the little gym that I am using now is one of these. Located on the third floor of a very old building in a very old town, it requires stamina just to enter. There are 44 steps from the street to the gym, and three small landings that break that steep rise. And the gym itself? It is a high-ceilinged space with large windows that look down over the main street of this small town. A bakery, a law office, a post office, a church – all are visible from my third-floor cardio perch. Much of the equipment is old, some with torn seat cushions; the floor are uneven; and if you want a barbell, you have to build your own. Arnold posters adorn the walls, and warnings admonish the non-compliant that breaking the rules will result in penalties – say “I can’t” during boot camp? Pay $5.00. Wear outdoor shoes into the gym? (a real no-no in this sand & salt-laden winter climate) – lose your membership. No appeal. Able to lift the weight? Then don’t drop it! This is a place where not only are you expected to pull your own weight – but you’re expected to re-rack it, too. If you don’t, then you’re just weak – or lazy. And if you didn’t already know this, which you should, then just read the signs. This is a facility that is owned and run by a young couple who are power-lifters, and they subscribe to an old-school work ethic that I love. They are heavily into Crossfit and boot-camp style workouts, and even when training my 73-year-old mother, they pushed her to the limits, never once assuming she wasn’t capable. This is a GYM, in capital letters, and you’d better know that when you walk through the door.
The very best of gyms… my home gym is one, too, and in very many ways, it is as much of a muscle-gym as this temporary home of mine. But I have the luxury of working with a trainer, and so, even though I am more than capable, I am unused to pulling and racking my own weights. My usual gym has barbells, so I am unused to building my own. It has squat racks that I am used to, so I don’t have to adjust to a new method of deadlifting. I am spoiled, folks, and I have been made very aware of this over the last few days.
So it is an adjustment. A psychic, as well as a physical adjustment. This little gym that for years, I have used as a vacation home, is about to become my primary home, and I’m having a little trouble adapting. But, flexible girl that I am, my brain will come around, and soon I will no longer feel like a guest on vacation. I will climb the stairs, walk through the door, greet Paul, Sarah, or whoever is behind the counter and begin my workout with the same sense of familiarity that I do in Texas.
Because after all, home is where the heart is. And for now, at least, my heart has returned to Canada.
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