Mornings at the Gym
I used to think that a gym is basically a gerbil farm, with such-and-such a number of gerbils running mindless races for X minutes a day and paying Y dollars per month for the privilege of this unproductive (in the sense that nothing is accomplished by the expenditure of energy) round of activities. "The least they could do," I thought, cynically, "would be to hook up all the treadmills to an electrical factory or something." As for the gerbils, I wished they would make gardens or buildings or do something more meaningful than gerbilling.
As usual, I was wrong. It turns out that gyms are not gerbil farms and are actually quite productive in their own way. They provide a place where one can get 30-120 minutes of good exercise, regardless of weather, without having to provide oneself with gardening tools, axes for cutting wood, or other "productive" paraphernalia. Of course one gives up a good deal---oh scent of leaves, oh emerald grasses and blue-bright sky!---but in the winter especially there is much to be grateful for in a gym.
The way I have come to think of gyms is, unsurprisingly, ancient. I think of them as Roman baths and gymansia: a place to relax and meet friends as well as work muscles. Each morning around 7:30 I roll out of bed and put my hair in a knot and drag an old sweatshirt out of the closet so that I can go someplace warm and fragrant to wake up while I work out. Since I'm one of those people who can read on the elliptical, I also have a guaranteed stretch of time to meet with God. I also have opportunities to interact with unbelievers---sometimes hilariously!
I love the pull of weights against my arm muscles, even when a round of ten machines makes them ache; I love the long, soothing stretches; I love the smooth rounded motion of the elliptical and cycle machines; I love even the groan of muscles in my legs and back from the rowing machine. In keeping with my "Roman baths" mentality, I have decided that using the rowing machine is "playing galley slave."
What I like best is when Daddy and I go to the gym together, which usually occurs on Wednesdays. Sometimes we do weights. Sometimes we sit in the huge jacuzzi pool and talk while the heat works into our strained muscles. Today we did the rowing machines. Dad was a rowing champ in his youth (it's a Dartmouth thing) and his older brother was too. Today he knocked out 10,000 meters on iste exhausting machine while telling me stories of Uncle Ed's triumphs. Sitting beside him and pulling in rhythm on my own machine, I could almost see it: long cool river at dawn, feathering of oars, cries of coxswain, dip and roll of paper-thin boat, and reach-pull-lean---reach-pull-lean rhythm. Don't catch a crab!---that is, don't tangle your long water-scooping oar with somebody else's.
"If I ever want to write about rowing in a story," I thought dreamily, "I'll know how to do it. I can picture it all..."
I like to work out---Dad likes to work himself in.... into the ground. Consequently I went to curl up with my Bible while he finished the second half of his exertions. I had about ten minutes alone with the book of John (1:1-18) and Isaiah (9) when an adorable troupe of older ladies and gentlemen come up to take possession of the lounge area. They chatted, argued, and laughed in a strong accent (New York, I think) and talked about whether or not Venice is sinking. One (her name was Thelma) chatted agreeably with me. Somehow we got on to the subject of her grandchildren. She said, "You must be younger than my grandsons!"
"I'm twenty-five."
"Oh, well, the one I mentioned is twenty-six."
"How old do I look to you?" I asked, curious.
"About eighteen."
I groaned. "Everybody says that!"
"Well, someday you'll be grateful for it."
What could I do but grin sheepishly? That's what everybody says: "Someday you'll be grateful for it." Anyway, Dad came and we went, and snap!---the day flashed by. Now I sit here eagerly anticipating tomorrow morning, another morning at the gym. Maybe I can get up to 55 lbs on the arm-press tomorrow.... ;-)
As usual, I was wrong. It turns out that gyms are not gerbil farms and are actually quite productive in their own way. They provide a place where one can get 30-120 minutes of good exercise, regardless of weather, without having to provide oneself with gardening tools, axes for cutting wood, or other "productive" paraphernalia. Of course one gives up a good deal---oh scent of leaves, oh emerald grasses and blue-bright sky!---but in the winter especially there is much to be grateful for in a gym.
The way I have come to think of gyms is, unsurprisingly, ancient. I think of them as Roman baths and gymansia: a place to relax and meet friends as well as work muscles. Each morning around 7:30 I roll out of bed and put my hair in a knot and drag an old sweatshirt out of the closet so that I can go someplace warm and fragrant to wake up while I work out. Since I'm one of those people who can read on the elliptical, I also have a guaranteed stretch of time to meet with God. I also have opportunities to interact with unbelievers---sometimes hilariously!
I love the pull of weights against my arm muscles, even when a round of ten machines makes them ache; I love the long, soothing stretches; I love the smooth rounded motion of the elliptical and cycle machines; I love even the groan of muscles in my legs and back from the rowing machine. In keeping with my "Roman baths" mentality, I have decided that using the rowing machine is "playing galley slave."
What I like best is when Daddy and I go to the gym together, which usually occurs on Wednesdays. Sometimes we do weights. Sometimes we sit in the huge jacuzzi pool and talk while the heat works into our strained muscles. Today we did the rowing machines. Dad was a rowing champ in his youth (it's a Dartmouth thing) and his older brother was too. Today he knocked out 10,000 meters on iste exhausting machine while telling me stories of Uncle Ed's triumphs. Sitting beside him and pulling in rhythm on my own machine, I could almost see it: long cool river at dawn, feathering of oars, cries of coxswain, dip and roll of paper-thin boat, and reach-pull-lean---reach-pull-lean rhythm. Don't catch a crab!---that is, don't tangle your long water-scooping oar with somebody else's.
"If I ever want to write about rowing in a story," I thought dreamily, "I'll know how to do it. I can picture it all..."
I like to work out---Dad likes to work himself in.... into the ground. Consequently I went to curl up with my Bible while he finished the second half of his exertions. I had about ten minutes alone with the book of John (1:1-18) and Isaiah (9) when an adorable troupe of older ladies and gentlemen come up to take possession of the lounge area. They chatted, argued, and laughed in a strong accent (New York, I think) and talked about whether or not Venice is sinking. One (her name was Thelma) chatted agreeably with me. Somehow we got on to the subject of her grandchildren. She said, "You must be younger than my grandsons!"
"I'm twenty-five."
"Oh, well, the one I mentioned is twenty-six."
"How old do I look to you?" I asked, curious.
"About eighteen."
I groaned. "Everybody says that!"
"Well, someday you'll be grateful for it."
What could I do but grin sheepishly? That's what everybody says: "Someday you'll be grateful for it." Anyway, Dad came and we went, and snap!---the day flashed by. Now I sit here eagerly anticipating tomorrow morning, another morning at the gym. Maybe I can get up to 55 lbs on the arm-press tomorrow.... ;-)
posted by Praelucor at 7:43 PM
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