Gym rats are born, not made

The Boston Herald

March 23, 2001

The new gym rat in the family has been nagging me. He starts even before I open my eyes. "Power Pump is today. You really should go," he says at 5 a.m.

The clock radio has just clicked on. The announcer's voice is a whisper because the radio takes time to warm up. Mr. Stretch and Bend doesn't have this problem. I said I'd go to the gym in the spring. Spring has arrived. He has deemed it his duty to get me there.

For a month he's been pitching Power Pump, a weight training class that conditions and strengthens every major muscle group in the body. He has stood by the door to my home office, his gym bag in hand, and beckoned. "Come with me. Take a break. Get the blood circulating. You'll feel better."

"My blood is fine. I feel fine," I've told him.

He's tracked me down on my cell phone, at the bank, at the library. "Where are you? What are you doing? Power Pump starts in 20 minutes."

"Maybe tomorrow," I say. "I'm busy. I can't go now."

"I know you'll like it. It's a good workout. Once you start you won't want to stop," he has said repeatedly over dinner. And I've nodded and smiled and humored him. "OK. I'll go. I promise. But right now could you just pass the Girl Scout cookies?"

Tuesday night I finally gave in. From the get-go I was in trouble. The first thing we had to do was build a step using the plastic pieces that were all along the side of the huge glass wall. (Think fishbowl with dozens of buff people on treadmills looking at you). This was Legos for adults, something Mr. Feel My Abs failed to disclose: two square pieces at either side, a long board on top, a mat on top of that.

Everyone else assembled the step, no problem. Except for me. I was like a kid with a corner puzzle piece trying to jam it in the middle. The building of the step was but a minor challenge. Using it was the far bigger one. "Right foot first, one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four," said the instructor, Danielle, a pretty girl who went to school with my younger daughter. She was doing a great job leading everyone in the class. And she smiled at me even when I was going left and she was saying right.

Everyone got the rhythm - knees bent, back straight, making the changeover to "Left foot now, one, two, three, four." Everyone was synchronized, except me. We lay down on the step. We touched our left knees with our right elbows or maybe it was our left shoulders to our right knees. Who knows? Who can see the instructor while lying down? Who pays attention to the instructor even while standing up when there's this wall length mirror turning everyone's lefts into rights and ups into downs?

We marched, one, two, three, four. We lifted weights. We stood, crouched, sat, knelt. And all I wanted to do was find my favorite gym rat and tell him this: That being able to walk and chew gum at the same time is a prerequisite of Power Pump. I can walk or chew. Stand or sit. March or not march. Not do both.

Forget Power Pump. Just pass the Girl Scout cookies, please.