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captainsblogMy fitness regime received an ancient Chinese curse over the weekend. We definitely are living in interesting times.
As background: I'm nearing the end of my second year of regular group-fitness training. It's a path that began by seeing an ad in a liquor store, of all places, and resulted in me finally making some headway with both weights (working out with more and heavier of them) and weight (losing close to 40 pounds in the first year and keeping most of it off for most of the second so far). All of this was centered on one of many quiet, out-of-the-way fitness places that dot the major highways of this town; this one, in a converted commercial space (it has a full-size overhead garage door in the back, so it must have once fixed, made or shipped SOMETHING) that was a long but, in a pinch, walkable walk from our house and about three blocks from our church.
I say "was" because, as of Sunday morning, our group doesn't go there anymore.
X, the owner, was my trainer's trainer, and proudly displayed his name, silhouette and even a few classy semi-nude pictures of himself on the gym's walls. I only worked with him a few times directly, never for more than a half hour or so, and I never clicked with his Alpha-dog personality. For a small gym, it had more rules than some third world countries I've studied, and X was clearly a convert to all kinds of marketing guru gospels, as evidenced by the mission statements, Groupon-style promotions and contests that filled its walls and social media pages.
It was also clear that I wasn't alone in being a little off-put by some of his shit. Our class trainer was probably the only one other than X himself who was there the whole time I was in classes there. Many others left for assorted levels of "opportunity" elsewhere- and his massage therapist position was on par with being the drummer for Spinal Tap in terms of job security. They just seemed to spontaneously combust every few weeks, and it became something of a joke about whether there'd be a sign advertising the latest LMT, or a smoothie menu, on the whiteboard next to the massage room.
Yet this all sailed past us. Our instructor was an independent contractor, and as long as we racked our weights and didn't track mud across his nice clean floor, we had every expectation of continuing into our third year together. It turned out that I could even use a new benny coming with my just-acquired health insurance, for X was a participating provider and I could use my fitness benefit card through him to pay for the next two months of classes.
Until Sunday, that is.
----
I got the news in a Facebook post that morning, the day after a Saturday class there which I usually attend but didn't this week. Tonight, though, I got the lowdown. Our trainer is participating in a promotion that's being hosted at another local gym. I'd heard of it; it's a very high-concept place, competing for the same niche, and X apparently hates their guts. He copped a major attitude about our trainer "promoting" the competition, even though his gym would have been plugged in the promotional materials associated with her participation, as would all the other gyms with their participants. One thing led to another, and X kicked her- and, ultimately, all of us- out to the curb on the spot. We were no longer welcome in his "private club."
Careful what you ask for, dude. Less than a day later, our group had a new home, in yet another of those road-dotting niche clubs, closer to the one he hates than to his place (or our home), but also a touchy spot because a lot of his former trainers and clients, including the owner, have gravitated there. I waited to see if it would blow over, but ultimately got invited to the class that woulda, coulda, shoulda been at X's place at 5 tonight. It is a haul, but by hopscotching a bunch of back roads, you avoid the worst of the traffic on Sheridan and Transit, and....
I'm in. It's bigger, but not BigAss Franchise Gym huge. The equipment is newer and more varied. There's a bit more of what I'd have to call "Stepford" clientele, but you're going to get that anywhere in the suburbs. There are more water coolers and fewer rule signs. And, in the final test in the mens room garbage can, I found no empty vials of junk; I've heard that to be a problem in some of these places, and I'd hesitate to enable one of them.
By Wednesday, I should know if we can do the benefit debit-card deal with them; the price and schedule are the same, and X, I truly fear, will be back there all by himself, hanging from the pull-up bar and hoisting his body weight from his own petard.
As background: I'm nearing the end of my second year of regular group-fitness training. It's a path that began by seeing an ad in a liquor store, of all places, and resulted in me finally making some headway with both weights (working out with more and heavier of them) and weight (losing close to 40 pounds in the first year and keeping most of it off for most of the second so far). All of this was centered on one of many quiet, out-of-the-way fitness places that dot the major highways of this town; this one, in a converted commercial space (it has a full-size overhead garage door in the back, so it must have once fixed, made or shipped SOMETHING) that was a long but, in a pinch, walkable walk from our house and about three blocks from our church.
I say "was" because, as of Sunday morning, our group doesn't go there anymore.
X, the owner, was my trainer's trainer, and proudly displayed his name, silhouette and even a few classy semi-nude pictures of himself on the gym's walls. I only worked with him a few times directly, never for more than a half hour or so, and I never clicked with his Alpha-dog personality. For a small gym, it had more rules than some third world countries I've studied, and X was clearly a convert to all kinds of marketing guru gospels, as evidenced by the mission statements, Groupon-style promotions and contests that filled its walls and social media pages.
It was also clear that I wasn't alone in being a little off-put by some of his shit. Our class trainer was probably the only one other than X himself who was there the whole time I was in classes there. Many others left for assorted levels of "opportunity" elsewhere- and his massage therapist position was on par with being the drummer for Spinal Tap in terms of job security. They just seemed to spontaneously combust every few weeks, and it became something of a joke about whether there'd be a sign advertising the latest LMT, or a smoothie menu, on the whiteboard next to the massage room.
Yet this all sailed past us. Our instructor was an independent contractor, and as long as we racked our weights and didn't track mud across his nice clean floor, we had every expectation of continuing into our third year together. It turned out that I could even use a new benny coming with my just-acquired health insurance, for X was a participating provider and I could use my fitness benefit card through him to pay for the next two months of classes.
Until Sunday, that is.
----
I got the news in a Facebook post that morning, the day after a Saturday class there which I usually attend but didn't this week. Tonight, though, I got the lowdown. Our trainer is participating in a promotion that's being hosted at another local gym. I'd heard of it; it's a very high-concept place, competing for the same niche, and X apparently hates their guts. He copped a major attitude about our trainer "promoting" the competition, even though his gym would have been plugged in the promotional materials associated with her participation, as would all the other gyms with their participants. One thing led to another, and X kicked her- and, ultimately, all of us- out to the curb on the spot. We were no longer welcome in his "private club."
Careful what you ask for, dude. Less than a day later, our group had a new home, in yet another of those road-dotting niche clubs, closer to the one he hates than to his place (or our home), but also a touchy spot because a lot of his former trainers and clients, including the owner, have gravitated there. I waited to see if it would blow over, but ultimately got invited to the class that woulda, coulda, shoulda been at X's place at 5 tonight. It is a haul, but by hopscotching a bunch of back roads, you avoid the worst of the traffic on Sheridan and Transit, and....
I'm in. It's bigger, but not BigAss Franchise Gym huge. The equipment is newer and more varied. There's a bit more of what I'd have to call "Stepford" clientele, but you're going to get that anywhere in the suburbs. There are more water coolers and fewer rule signs. And, in the final test in the mens room garbage can, I found no empty vials of junk; I've heard that to be a problem in some of these places, and I'd hesitate to enable one of them.
By Wednesday, I should know if we can do the benefit debit-card deal with them; the price and schedule are the same, and X, I truly fear, will be back there all by himself, hanging from the pull-up bar and hoisting his body weight from his own petard.