Gym Town, USA
At
the Arnold Classic in Columbus, this is
Odis from Torque Athletic, standing in front
of the Draper Dungeon
power cage prototype, talking with our friend
Tim Dooley.
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If you’re an ordinary person (good grief, spare me) and suddenly find yourself standing in the middle of the Muscle Beach Dungeon, circa 1965, you’d think you’d died and gone to hell. Since you’re a bomber, you’d think, "How cool. I died and on my way to heaven we stopped at the 'Gym of the Angels' for a quick pump and some inspiration."
"There’s Methuselah’s bench press, and that looks like the squat rack Moses used to strengthen his legs before climbing the Mount."
Today, except for a handful of honest steel mills and iron works claiming space in the "original districts" of small towns, you don’t see any real gyms. They’re gone, like barber shops, soda fountains, shoe repairs and authentic neighborhoods. Instead, they have frightening imitations with blinding bright lights, fantasyland equipment and enough pounding music to fill Carnegie Hall to the rafters. And the people who attend these garish gyms -- ahem, health clubs and facilities -- think this is where it’s at.
There is one such gleaming showground in our community, aptly located in a former used-car dealership -- imagine a 25,000-square-foot, two-story cube of plate glass displaying equipment of chrome and bodies in Lycra. Laree and I passed the amusing 24-hour facility the other evening in our travels, and -- the girl’s a riot -- she casually suggested we stop in for a quick workout. We simultaneously gasped, rolled our eyes and recoiled at the absolutely absurd idea.
But, wait...
For a
few agonizing
and surreal
moments
I imagined
in detail
the reality
of Laree’s
bizarre
proposal,
forcing,
first
of all,
the car
into
a tight
turn
at the
corner
and deliberately
locating
a parking
place.
Secondly,
gathering
our ever-ready
gym gear
before
locking
the vehicle
-- which
has an
intelligence
of its
own and
glared
at us
as if
betrayed
-- and
heading
for the
entrance,
a brilliant
experience
in itself
illuminated
by 10,000
watts,
some
of which
blinked
on and
off eagerly
to accentuate
the 3-for-1
Special
and the
Free
Trip
to Hawaii.
Opening
the door
was the
third
grief
on the
list
of the
visualized
traumas,
followed
by saying "hi" to
all 10
salespersons,
shiny
white
teeth
everywhere.
Smiles are stuck on faces like gum under scarred tabletops at the Pink Pussycat Lounge. Though I’m not the drinking type, the Pink Pussycat sounds good right about now. Later, maybe.
Past the
front counter
without
losing
our shirts,
beyond
the locker-room
without
losing
our shorts
and onto
the gym
floor without
losing
our way
-- the
place is
huge: locker-rooms,
bathrooms,
saunas
and hot
tubs, pool,
aerobic
floor and
12 cubicles
for chatting
about memberships
(never,
ever enter
one of
these chat
chambers
without
someone
big to
love and
protect
you) --
and there
we are
on display
with the
rest of
the cast
of animated characters.
Now what?
Time
to leave
-- split,
scram,
evacuate,
bail
-- but
not before
we get
one dazzling
set so
we can
say, "We
got one
dazzling
set before
we left." A
last
incredulous
look,
a sigh
of relief
and out
the closest
Exit
Door,
or more
appropriately,
the Escape
Hatch.
Zoom,
zoom,
zoom.
The brief and screwy scenario caused me to pause and wonder which I preferred, the dimly lit YMCA weight room with improvised equipment and yellowing walls adjacent to the boiler room, or the flashy health club featuring banks of TVs, computerized machinery, high-tech devices and seductive comforts to distract and amuse the nouveau athlete warrior.
The answer, as usual, lies somewhere between. The gyms of a generation ago, the steel mills and iron works built by the devoted lifters themselves, were the best -- technically sound, intelligently laid out, sufficient equipped without intrusive excess, and committed to the cause of building muscle and power. What most of them lacked was money and business acumen.
Their current-day successor, available in duplicates and chains, has excess by the truckload, distraction in abundance, pretense in mass quantities, overflowing conformity, inestimably more greed than good deed, and frisky financiers.
It appears
to me that
the landscape
of Gym
Town in
America,
and elsewhere
I presume,
is changing
and continues
to change.
Could it
be the
replacements
for the
neighborhood
Ma-Pa or
Joe-Bob
gyms, the
ubiquitous,
artificial
nation-wide
Snappy
McGyms,
are no
longer
where it’s
at?
Folks
are tuning
to TV
infomercials
touting
bungee
stretching,
bow bending
and spring-pulling
home-gym
contraptions.
They
work.
One can
exercise
at home
and condition
one’s
body
if one
is so
inclined.
The market
is growing,
and convenience
and privacy
are the
selling
features.
No impossible
cross-town
traffic,
no parking
frustration,
no crowded
gym floor,
no infectious
diseases,
no public
embarrassment,
no blaring
music,
no locker-room
blues,
no jerks
-- just
you and
a buddy,
maybe,
whenever
you chose.
And you
can play
country-western
if you
want...
show-tunes,
mantras,
Vaughn
Monroe.
As the world becomes more crowded, more accelerated and less friendly, I, too, have considered training at home. Though I love the gym in which I train and it’s one of the last remaining true weight trainer’s gyms in the solar system, it is across town and increasingly out of reach. I am not alone. As the pros grow older, the gym experience, though precious as ever, often becomes more particular. Most pros, as I, would consider training at home if the home equipment wasn’t so inferior -- the words undersized, ineffectual, tinker-toy and depressing come to mind. And outfitting a garage or basement with professional gear is costly in dollars and square footage.
I suspect one day I will ideally train twice a week at the gym and two or three times at home -- the gym for the atmosphere, friendly contact and specific movements and apparatus, and home for some meaty solo and silent iron engagement.
Training
at home
has its
obvious
benefits,
but can
be terribly
boring,
uninspired
and painfully
procrastinated.
No enthusiasm
-- no intensity,
no intensity
-- no growth,
no growth,
and your
home gym
becomes
part clothes
hanger
and a fulltime
source
of guilt.
A well-established
private
weight
training
area of
limited
space can
be a retreat
and the
center
for revitalized
muscle,
power and
fulfillment.
I cannot
consider
for more
than
10 seconds
-- make
that
five
-- the
plight
of training
at home
with
inadequate
benches,
racks
and pulleys,
to say
nothing
of wobbly
barbells
and dumbbells.
I can
consider,
however,
the solution
to the
impending
predicament.
In fact,
I have
considered
the solution
for several
years
and the
notion
of resurrecting
the plans
is tempting.
Do you recall my mentioning the Draper Dungeon? When I first met Odis Meredith of Torque Athletic, a custom gym-equipment manufacturer from Indiana and the builder of my Top Squat and Stealth Bar, he suggested we develop a non-comparable, heavy-duty cage and bench for home use, with an assortment of nifty attachments I would insist on as a selfish, spoiled and pouty champion of the distant past. I strutted about our research and design headquarters (my kitchen) and contemplated the idea. "Yes, it has great potential, Big O," I said. "Let’s give the seed time to take root in our subconscious and grow in design."
Time has done its deed.
We have already designed and tested the adjustable bench and power cage with plate holders and dip- and chin-bar built-ins. The seated and overhead cable systems are our final considerations, along with pricing and logistics and custom sizing for limited-space blueprints.
This is what I have in mind:
Draper’s Dungeon -- an efficient, extra-heavy-duty, big-muscle, big-power, all-purpose collection of hardcore equipment designed for a small and sufficient floor plan: power cage, adjustable bench, lat pulldown, variety of handle attachments, seated lat row, EZ-grip chin bar, close-grip chin and dip bars...
No, this is not a newsletter devoted to product marketing, big bucks for the corporation, impressing the stockholders or gaining prominence before our peers and competitors in the field of muscle and fitness. There are only Laree and me, after all, and our net savings of $13.67. Oh, yeah, there’s Odis and his talented high school buddies working in an old leaky barn on the south pasture of his dad’s alfalfa farm. This is an opportunity to bring to the uncompromising lifter professional training mechanics and atmosphere and attitude to the evolving concept of home training. Big stuff for big training built to fit small hangars.
Mull it over in your fit and fantastic minds. No rush. We have the rest of our lives.
Just kidding about Odis and his operations. They are second-to-none, big-time, high-tech, first-class, top-notch and the best. It’s their friendly, honest, small-town approach to business that stirs my whimsical portrayal.
Though it’s December, chilly and full of celebration, there will be no skipping workouts or overindulging in food and spirits. Bombers are in control; they fly high, they soar, they glide and they land on a dime without a scratch -- they live it up and they live right.
God’s strength and joy... DD
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