Seasonal Gym Booms (and Busts)

Certain holidays draw more people to the gym. Key dates--New Years, Valentines, holy days--seem to spark the desire to be more fit.

Actually sticking to fitness resolutions is another matter.

New Years triggered a virtual tsunami of gym interest. 2012 began with dozens of new people appearing in Flex Fit Gym, clad in workout togs and clutching water bottles. Nearly every recumbent bike, elliptical machine, and treadmill whirred in a symphony of well intentioned New Year's resolutions. Clank-clank-clanking from the weight room offered the percussion to this musical composition. Bear in mind that this was at 5 am--yep, five am in the morning.

The week after New Year's saw strong gym attendance.

Fewer people came the second week.

By the third week, the cardio room at Flex Fit was very quiet, with only me and three middle aged ladies riding the recumbent bikes, giggling and watching Urkel on Family Matters. I began to develop a great appreciation for the comic genius of Jaleel White, the actor who played Urkel.

New people would come in and out, of course, showing up once or twice or a few times, then, for whatever reason, petering out. There was one particularly entertaining guy who showed up only once.

One day, I was in the weight room and the sudden explosion of noise in the cardio room made me think that livestock had busted in and were mating. Went to see what it was, and a guy about my age, ear buds jammed in, was on a treadmill, shouting encouragement to himself while letting out large grunts of exertion.

Nothing wrong with this, I suppose. But I hoped that, come Spring, his cries wouldn't attract any actual amorous cattle. Or Javenlinas, which have actually been spotted close to where the gym is.

Since he never showed up again, I'm pretty sure a Javelina got him. But I digress.

Valentine's Day tripled the number of women showing up at the gym for the early morning shift. Women at Flex Fit greatly outnumbered the men. I only had two theories to explain it.

1. A really good Valentine's day.
2. A really bad Valentine's day.

Women friends offered other explanations. Marie Rose suggested the cause of the Women's Post-Valentine's Day Gym Boom was chocolate. She said that whether the chocolate was a gift or was "self bought," it "makes to difference to the calories consumed." Thus, "the need for mad working out."


The Denises (Wilks Saltz and Carrell) attributed the Valentine's Boom to crummy V-day gifts. Denise W suggested that "clueless men" probably "gave gym memberships" for the Holiday of Love. Denise C. agreed, noting that a gym membership is a "crummy gift" for the occasion.

Amy Rieger had a common-sense but completely different theory. Valentine's Day is close to Spring Break, which many women "want to look good" for, she said.

Whatever the reason for the Valentine's Day Boom, it brought a lot of women to the gym, women with enough self discipline that they continue to come regularly. Self discipline and commitment are usually character traits I admire.

Usually.

But this wave of self disciplined women brought me the Stair Mistress. She made me realize something bad about myself:

I have become an old codger.

This is not something I'm happy to admit. But, on cardio days prior to the ascent of the Stair Mistress, I had a nice routine--I'd ride the recumbent bike for 30 minutes, and then I'd get on the stair climber. That fateful day, I got done with the bike, turned around, and there she was.

On MY stair climber.

The one I ALWAYS use.

Now, she has as much right to the stair climber as I do. But that day, I was thinking "But that's MY stair climber. I ALWAYS use THAT stair climber after biking."

Bear in mind that there is another, perfectly functional stair climber right next to MY stair climber (the one Stair Mistress was on). But I'd gotten so settled into my routine that, for a moment, my head vapor locked, and I was thinking, "I can't work out. She's on MY machine." I didn't even do stair climbing that day, I was so thrown.

I had tuned into an old fart. The Stair Mistress made me realize that about myself.

BTW, I call her the Stair Mistress because, if anyone deserves to "own" that machine or have her name on it, it is she. She drives herself hard, every day, to the point of near collapse, for a really long time, something like thirty minutes. If you've never actually used a stair climber, 30 minutes is epic, like climbing Kilimanjaro or finishing War and Peace in Russian. Stair Mistress is actually a title of honor. She is the Monarch of the Stair Master.

Fat Tuesday and the beginning of Lent brought about another attendance mini boom. At first, I thought the increase was people working off Fat Tuesday indulgences in food, alcohol, and pancakes (I'm Episcopalian; we pig out on pancakes to prepare for Lent). ingested on Fat Tuesday. But the Lent Boom was a mirage --most of the people who suddenly showed up on the first day of Lent were gone by the weekend.

Stacy Bruce said these Fat Tuesday Fitness Nuts (FTFN) stopped coming because of fasting--they had "no energy for exercise." Yvette Schaffer said that Lent may have first sent people to the gym with a "promise for better living." However, after a while, they "felt guilty" about "making Lent into a vanity project" and either stopped going out of guilt or decided to find a "more lofty" thing to do for lent.

Several people suggested that Amy was right in the first place--it's about looking good in the swim suit for Spring Break. If so, that's a concern of the young--it's been so long since I've looked good in a swim suit that I don't even remember what it was like.

Nope, I go to the beach--I live twenty minutes from the beaches of Padre--and expose the world to my big belly and my back hair, most of which is now grey. If the svelte who actually look good in swim suits are offended, well, they don't have to look. I'm so busy chasing after my kindergartner that I don't have time to check out other people's swimsuit fashion, anyway.

But all of theses Seasonal Gym Booms, and the busts that inevitably follow, have made me wonder why some people "stick" at the gym and why most people don't. And why I have stuck at the gym when most people haven't.

I have been out of shape for a LONG time. My pot belly is old enough to vote, own a house, and buy alcohol in any state in the union. If you had to pick a random person off the street and name them "Least likely to stick to a fitness program," your eyes would be drawn to me. "HIM," you would say, pointing your finger at me like a witness identifying a criminal in the courtroom. "The fat bald one with the grey beard."

So when I notice which people come to the gym for a while and stop, and which ones stick, I am NOT judging. I have more failed fitness plans than there are amendments to the US Constitution. I admire anyone for trying to come to the gym. I sympathize with people who start, stop, come back, and then stop and start again (like Fauxhawk Guys). I really respect people who commit and come to the gym every day, like Latino Fabio and the Stair Mistress.


Eric McClellan, a friend who is a former college football player now struggling with weight, tells me that "People go to the gym for the wrong reasons." These wrong reasons usually include trying to "look good" for a spouse or someone else they are romantically interested in, or trying to change the way "other people view them." He says the only reason to go to the gym is for yourself.


I'd like to believe that Eric is right--that I have achieved some kind of Zen like state of "inner self actualization," that I have such inner peace that I am going to the gym for me. But in my case, the answer to why I am still working out after so many failed attempts is more simple.

It's the damned dog's fault.

Yep, Crazy Daisy, the Most Irritatingly Peppy Beagle in the Universe, keeps getting me up at five in the morning, demanding to be walked. She's learned a little patience--she may give me ten, twenty seconds after the alarm goes off. If I fail to get up, she trims my cuticles with her teeth.

She continues the Teeth Cuticle Trim, interspersing it with licking the most ticklish parts of my toes, until my feet are safely encased in athletic shoes. If I try and cheat by laying back down wearing shoes or just opening the back door and hoping she'll go out back and pee, she jumps on me, then bites the toes of my running shoes, still trying to trim the toenails through the fabric.

If I just give in to the inevitable and just walk her and Pearl the Seventy Pound German Shepherd, Daisy stops nipping my toes and goes back to sleep. She only nips me 'til I get up and walk her and Pearl (although I doubt she really cares if I take Pearl along).

By the end of my walk, I'm semi awake, dressed, and it's still five o'clock in the friggin' morning. So, I think, I might as well go to the gym.

Daisy is the reason that this try at fitness has succeeded after dozens of others have failed. I don't know if I ought to thank her, or make her start sleeping outside.

Fauxhawks, Top Knots, and the Latino Fabio

Guys with unusual haircuts do not “stick” at the gym. They come, they go, they don’t come back. It’s a pattern I’ve noticed during my time at Flex Fit Gym.

The most common “interesting” men’s hair style I see is the “fauxhawk.” A fauxhawk is a Mohawk with commitment issues. A fauxhawk is a Mohawk that needs Viagra. Rather than shaving the side of the head, the way a Mohawk wearer would, the hair on the side of the Fauxhawk head is cut short but is still visible. The stripe of hair left longer along the top is shorter on a fauxhawk than it is on a Mohawk, often only an inch or so long (rather than the six or so inch bristles that you’d expect on any self respecting Mohawk wearer). It’s as if Fauxhawk Guy wanted to get a Mohawk but lacked courage.

Fauxhawk Guys have a number of gym rituals, all of which center around “I know I’m not a badass, but I want people to think I am.” This is visible in two ways: demeanor and how they lift weights. I’m serious.

Fauxhawk Guys strut like NFL hopefuls do at a scouting combine. Walking with fists clenched, arms held to the side with forearms flexed, they swagger slowly through the weight room with a “stone cold” look on their face, scowling, looking other males in the eye with a look of challenge. They walk slowly because they are trying to flex their leg muscles, too—a hard thing to do why you walk.

Fauxhawk Guys do not make eye contact with women. I don’t know why—maybe they think, “Oh, if I ignore these girls, it will drive them crazy and they will want me.” Maybe it’s because they realize that they could never catch up to a woman as long as they do that muscle-flex-walk thing. Most likely, it’s because, in their heart of heart of hearts, they know they look silly and can’t bear to make eye contact.

The other distinguishing Fauxhawk Factor is the manner in which they lift weights. If they lift free weights, it is with as much drama, action, noise, and facial expression as possible. Your normal self respecting free weight lifter settles himself down, lifts with proper form and an efficiency of effort, and exhales sharply when lifting, a determined look on his (or her) face. He (or she) lifts slowly, holding the weight at the top of the repetition, then lowering it slowly, knowing that negative resistance—the lowering of the weight—is what builds muscles.

Fauxhawk Guy has a different routine. He will walk around the weight, much like a dog who is either preparing to pee or is making a bed. Then he will settle himself into the weightlifting position, with lots of shaking of hands and arms, swiveling of the neck, and craning of eyes around to insure the other Fauxhawk Guys are watching. When he begins to lift he swings in broad motions, lifting extremely fast (pumping blood into the veins) updownupdownupdown without pausing, shaking the weight up and down, much like a bartender in a James Bond film would prepare 007’s martini (shaken, not stirred). While lifting, Fauxhawk Guy’s eyes pop out, and he looks, to all the world, like a constipated man on the toilet trying to expel last week’s baked potato.

At the end, his face is red and his muscles are swollen, temporarily inflamed by all the blood pumping through his veins as a result of improper weightlifting technique. He looks in the mirror and knows he looks goooood. After all, he has a Fauxhawk! His muscles pop, although they will return to normal size minutes after he leaves the gym.

Those Fauxhawk Guys who use weightlifting machines do many of the same things Fauwhawk Freeweighters do, with one variation. They get to the weightlifting station, which ever one it is—say, bench press—lift doing the same Shake Your Martini motion and, afterward, they look around furtively, and move the pin to the bottom of the stack.

I presume this is because he wants all of the other guys in the gym to ooh and aah about how macho he is because he can work out with the whole stack. If so, he failed, because all the other Fauxhawk Guys know this trick. Plus, I was watching him.

(I have to add that my wife says many men do this—put the pin in the bottom of the weight stack after lifting—and that it is not just Fauxhawk Guy who does this. I’ve never seen anyone else but them do so.)

Fauxhawk Guys never last at the gym. Perhaps the hairdo IS a symptom of their inability to commit. Can’t commit to a REAL Mowhawk, can’t commit to a gym routine. Perhaps it’s because they don’t make any real progress in the weight room—lifting that way will not lead to long term muscle or strength gain. Or perhaps it’s because of injury—lifting badly tends to have consequences in terms of torn muscles, damaged joints, and wrenched spines. Maybe it’s too much trouble to do that much hair care prior to going to the gym.

Top Knot Guys look just plain silly.

I have a news flash for you. Unless you wake up and are either

A) a ninja warrior

B) in a medieval film or

C) a woman

TOP KNOTS in your hair do NOT look good.

Presumably, there is some reason for the Top Knot.

Most of the women in the gym whose hair is at least as long as their shoulders pull their hair back in some kind of pony tail. Usually, their pony tails are pulled up, still on the back of their head, but a bit higher than center. My wife tells me this is called a “top pony tail.” I assume these ladies sport the top pony tail to keep their hair out of the way, and off the shoulders, in order to stay cool and to avoid getting lots of extra sweat in their hair.

I could understand if these guys with long hair wore a “high pony” or some other kind of pony tail like the ladies do, especially if they were, say, getting their hair fouled in the weight machines. But the guys I’m talking about go straight for the Ninja Warrior Look.

Then, they work out, tossing their heads a lot so the hair in the Top Knot Look moves around a lot. This is a phenomenon I have no explanation for. I will say that a number of my women friends contend that the top knot doesn’t look good on women, either. I have no opinion either way, although my friend Stacy Bruce says that Appalachian women who are Pentecostal ministers can preach a mean sermon while wearing a top knot.

Whatever their reasons for wearing the Top Knot, guys who sport this look don’t last any longer in the gym than Fauxhawk Guys do.

There is one major exception to my theory about guys with unusual hair who don’t stick to their gym routines: the Latino Fabio.

This man has earned my respect, and that of everyone else in the gym. First of all, he comes, every day, like clockwork. He is committed (no Fauxhawk for him!). Second, he’s in really, really good shape.

You can’t look at him and TELL he’s in good shape, because unlike Fauxhawk and Top Knot Guys, he doesn’t wear tight clothes that show every pec, bicep, and quad. He wears loose fitting tee shirts and long, baggy shorts—the kind of clothes people can move in.

I know he’s in good shape by the way he effortlessly handles fifty pound weights as he adds more iron to whatever he’s lifting. Nothing showy, just quiet, unassuming, and strong enough to bench press your house (although he’d never tell anyone he could).

His hair, thought, is neither Fauxhawked nor Top Knotted. Instead, he has thick, very long hair that runs down to the middle of his back and, on the side, lays on his shoulder, the way Fabio’s does. (In case you don’t know who Fabio is, he’s the muscular, blond Italian Adonis who has graced the cover out countless romance novels). And this guy has hair just like Fabio, although he’s quite young (probably early twenties) and Latino. Thus, the Latino Fabio, the Man Respected By All at Flex Fit Gym.

Young Fabio, is, however, the exception. Except for him, if a guy walks into the gym and is rocking an unusual hair style, it’s a clear indication that he’s not serious about going to the gym. I should enjoy him while he’s there, for I shall not see him very often or for very long.

Fairness obligates me to mention one other man.

A few weeks ago, a new Fauxhawk Guy showed up (the other ones had all petered out by then). He spent an hour working out with barbells and looking at his hair in the mirror. (I know some people look in the mirror as they exercise to they can check their form, to make sure they are using proper technique, or to check the symmetry of their muscles. But this guy actually stood so his body was blocked by equipment--I swear he truly was looking at his hair the whole time. New to Fauxhawks, maybe . . . .?) He left, and I didn’t see him again.

Then, yesterday, a vaguely familiar, ball capped guy was working out quietly in the corner (near Latino Fabio). When he took the cap off to wipe his brow, I saw his growing out but still short hair on the side, and the longer stripe of hair on top. I realized he was a Former Fauhawk Guy who must have rethought the look.

Maybe his girl friend staged an intervention.

Leaving the Gym: The Best Minute of My Day

Since beginning my fitness journey, I have been asked:

• Don't you feel better?
• Is it getting easier to go to the gym every day?
• When are you going to post the 'Before and After' pictures?

And my honest answer is "Well, it sucks less." This means that going to the gym now sucks less than it did when I started about eight weeks ago.

When I first started going (at five in the morning, I might add, because that's the only time in my day when I can go), it was dreadful. The alarm would go off, and the only thing that would keep me from turning it off was the fact that the 'off' switch on my alarm is not reachable from my side of the bed.

Alerted by the alarm, Crazy Daisy, the Most Irritatingly Peppy Beagle in the Universe, decided to nip my toes even before they hit the ground, and I would pull on shirt, shorts, and then try to get shoes on as Daisy tried to give me a pedicure with her teeth. Then, Pearl, the Seventy Pound German Shepherd would wander in, wondering what the heck was going on. (I like Pearl because, like me, she is neither an early or an easy riser.)

I would be halfway through walking them around the block when I would wonder, "Why in the world am I up at Dark Thirty?" Then, it would dawn on me, "Oh, yeah, I meant to go to the gym today." By the time I finished the walk and got the dogs back home, I would figure that, well, since I"m already awake, and up, I'd go to the gym.

So I'd drive to good ol' Flex Fit gym, do my workout, planning to quit after about each thirty seconds of cardio or each set of 10 on each weightlifting machine, planning on just giving up and going home and going back to bed. But then I'd get through that thirty seconds of bike riding or whatever cardio I was doing, or that set of ten on the wight machine, and I'd say, "well, maybe I'll do a bit more." Then I would repeat this process until I'd finish.

After about two weeks, I was gasping less and was able to notice that there were actually televisions on the wall of the gym.

After three weeks, I was less winded enough that I actually noticed there were other people in the gym.

After about four weeks, I was actually working out and was still getting enough air to my brain that I actually noticed that the same movie (Priest) was on every day.

After about six weeks, I actually was awake enough at five that I started planning on taking the dogs for a walk before the gym (rather than accidentally being tricked into it by Crazy Daisy).

The downside to this was that Crazy Daisy get used to the routine and would be sitting on the bed, staring at me, the second the alarm went off. Very disconcerting, to be stared at by a dog justly nicknamed Crazy. She has yet to stop nipping my toes as I try to pull my shoes on.

After eight weeks, I am not noticeably skinnier.

My clothes may not fit as badly as they once did, but I would not classify them as "Fitting Better."

I have not become one of those obnoxious Fitness Afficionados who suddenly preach the Virtues of Getting Git (as they preach the Virtues of Whatever Else Their Current Enthusiasm Is). I doubt most people I work with or encounter in my day to day, non gym life, even know I work out.

I don't know that I feel any better. But I don't feel any worse, and at my age, this is a victory. It's about hanging on!

Going to the gym isn't any easier. It's just become habit. My getting up, getting dressed, walking the dog routine has become so ingrained that I'm actually on my way to the gym before I ask myself the dreaded question, "Do I really want to go to the gym today?"

There will be no 'Before and After' pictures in which I have my "Biggest Loser Moment," and reveal my suddenly svelte self to friends and family, as they cheer and whoop while NBC's cameras roll. Realistically, my fitness goal is to delay the near-fatal heart attack that my father had at age 55 until later.

I have WAY TOO MUCH CHEST HAIR to have open-heart surgery.

So be best minute of the day is the minute I leave the gym after having completed my work out. I'm not sure why.

Maybe it's a sense of accomplishment. I did it!

Maybe it's relief--thank God it's over!

Maybe it's because I'm escaping the endless noise of the awful radio station that's perpetually on (which purports to play '90s alternative rock' even though it's clear the programmer has no idea what 90s alternative rock IS).

Maybe it's euphoria caused by lack of oxygen to the brain.

Some friends have their own theories:

Ann-Marie Lopez says it's "All of the above."

The always supportive Jay Butler says I should be happy that I "didn't pass out and die after all the cardio.'

Jerry Davis says that in "A few more years and you will be like the rest of us, as Terry Bradshaw says: 'Old, Fat, & Ugly.'" He predicts my future holds lots of Slim Fast.

All I can say in reply to them, and to others is that, after eight weeks of going to the gym, "It sucks less" than it did before.