Written fall of 2013 but still applicable
The gym. Grey and characterless. Its character then must be neutral. A huge space, absolutely huge, all in grey. From the torture machines to the carpet. Nothing attractive or rewarding to the eye. Except the human beings.
I am not infatuated with gyms. I am there because I must be. After shattering my hip in a bicycle accident, the gym regimen became routine. I had never been in one of these modern gymnasiums before. Seen pictures, yes; peeked in windows, yes. I abhorred the idea of actually going in one of those places to improve my corporeal condition. Now there I was, and still am, a willing and eager attendee to this new, painful, and exhausting world.
Of course the first time I walked into this cold space I had no idea what to do. I had been to see a physical therapist, but wrote him off very quickly after he wrote me off very quickly. You see, I had no medical insurance, and I have found out that caregivers don’t care unless you have a means to pay them. And pay them handsomely. So I was on my own. Well, actually, I wasn’t alone. I had the authentic caregivers: my wife and family, friends, and our friend Linda who would be my personal trainer, physical therapist, masseuse, and most importantly, partner in the gym.
So, in I go. I glanced around at the grey cavern and pretended to really want to be there. Machines of all types, sizes; barbells of all types and sizes; and astonishingly, human beings, real people employing the design of these devices to hopefully bring their earthly bodies to some point of satisfaction. Not my idea of fun.
Having been on a walker, and now on crutches, this experience was being held high in trepidation. It was like hot and cold, oil and vinegar, love and hate. I knew that I had to be here, at the same time recoiling at the thought of the ensuing pain, effort, and commitment. I was driven to be here by the vocalization of my goal: to whit, to ride my bike in the New York Gran Fondo, eight months hence. I couldn’t back down. Humans have this thing about pride and commitment, especially when a goal has been pronounced, with conviction, and with witnesses to be respected and from whom I wished respect.
I hobbled on two crutches over to the closest machine in view, a leg press. A beautiful bit of engineering it is. Powder-coated in shiny grey and upholstered in green fake leather. Yellow adjustment knobs were the color accent to the device. The beginning of a long relationship with this rascal was about to ensue. I sat on it. It did not welcome me like a large soft settee. In fact, the cold repulsed me, but, being the proud and committed fellow that I was, I resisted the desire of a friendly machine and knew it was to be a taskmaster with whom I would have a genuine relationship.
There are at least a dozen of the grey hulking machines at this end of the gymnasium. And hulking they are. They sit on the floor in a circle like the Stonehenge. Mysterious, brooding, large, heavy, and looking out over their estate of grey, awaiting poor slobs like me to explore, try, and master. Over time, I have worked my way around the circle, emphasizing the leg, hip, and core exercises, keeping a log of the weight and the dates; proof positive that I was indeed improving.
There have been two transformations in this person. Well more than that, but in the context of the grey gymnasium, I’ll keep it to two. The first is the obvious. I have matriculated from hobbling in on two crutches, to one crutch, then the miracle of walking in on my own, albeit painfully and with a Trendelenburg gait (an abnormal gait caused by weakness of the abductor muscles). I am now working on the last outside visually observable remnant of the accident, the antalgic limp. These progressions are the result of an enormous amount of work on my part, and help from my support team.
The second transformation has been me; me, as in who I am. I have become the convert. The let’s get up and go to the gym kind of guy. Over the last six months I have discovered the ability to convert this broken and sore body to one of strength and flexibility. Oh, sorry, I’m not there yet, but I can feel the healing. I know that I will be close to who I was – physically.
PostScript:
I made it to the New York Gran Fondo in New York City, I rode the entire route, albeit slower than the year previous. And then I confounded the odds, to wit, I had another bike accident and broke the other hip! I am still on the mend and as a year gains on the last accident, I have my days of depression and lethargy. I fight for motivation to do the therapy. The damn pain persists. I face a hip replacement and dread the hospital and the therapy. But the bicycle still brings me happiness and freedom from all the concerns. My bicycle is my Zen Master: whilst riding I go into myself and exclude the mind and matter that inflicts itself on me and I become one with the bike.
