Illustration by Michael DiMilo
By Geoff Carter
My new habit of going to the gym is not because I made a New Year’s resolution. No, I’m merely taking advantage of my Medicare Advantage program, which allows me to join as many gyms or fitness programs as I wish. So, this new determination to work out is based on good old-fashioned economics because, like any good Milwaukeean, I want to take advantage of a good deal. It’s sort of like when you see seniors at a restaurant pocketing the free rolls, butter pats, and jelly containers at the table. Free is free. Getting healthy and getting pumped are nice side benefits to getting a great deal.
I’ve found that going to the gym is sort of an adventure; you’re never sure what’s going to happen. Depending on the day or the time, you might run across the hardcore bodybuilders, the kids who sit on exercise machines for what seems like hours staring at their iPhones (and maybe doing a set of reps every twenty minutes), or the seniors (like myself) who shuffle and totter, or—eventually—strut through their routines.
Our local YMCA sponsors fitness programs for patrons suffering from Parkinson’s Disease, therapeutic water aerobics, Tai Chi, yoga, spin classes, and more. It also has an open gym—usually frequented by youngsters, and a pickleball league (not frequented by youngsters). They even have children’s programs and swimming lessons. There’s something for everyone.
I also (again thanks to that great Medicare deal) belong to a local suburban gym which is much smaller than the YMCA; although there is also access to a pool, there are fewer fitness machines and a postage-stamp sized locker room. Most patrons don’t shower there. They simply work out, go home, and—presumably (hopefully)—shower there. It’s less friendly. This gym also charges for group exercise classes. There doesn’t seem to be too much camaraderie there. People show up, do their thing, and go home. They don’t really talk, and most don’t seem to know each other. It’s sort of a detached, chilly vibe. I go there on occasion because it’s close to where I live.
The YMCA, on the other hand, is as much of a social center as it is a gym. There is friendly and sometimes fierce competition in the pickleball league. The serious lifters hang together. Teens will come in and ball with friends. My branch has a coffee bar where patrons will gather and chew the fat. A fair number spend a lot of time there. Most of them are retired. As a senior, I have to say that health concerns play a much larger role in deciding whether how and how often to work out. And I must admit that despite my reluctance to say so, I am now a senior. I no longer get miffed at the Walgreen’s cashier who asks if I want the senior day discount.
The day I acknowledged my senior status was like any other day. It wasn’t just the math, though that should have made the fact obvious. It wasn’t the Medicare (welcome though it is), and it wasn’t the inordinate amount of time my friends spend talking about health issues. It wasn’t the sporadic losses of my old friends and respected colleagues. No, it was the math—not the acceptance of how old I am, but the calculation of how many years I have left.
My doctor told me that strength training and stretching are as important as cardio for a person of my age. A person of my age. Shit. So, I’m doing Tai Chi, Yoga, and EGym—an electronic weight program—at my local YMCA, as well as swimming laps and doing elliptical work. This is not nearly as bad as it sounds. It’s maybe a total of four hours a week and who knows how much time I’m buying? Did I mention it’s free?
The gym is well-equipped. The treadmills, ellipticals, stationary bikes, and weight machines face a row of at least twenty television screens. A wide variety of news stations (thankfully, it’s no longer the ubiquitous Fox News channel) play along with sporting events, soap operas, and even HGTV. Many machines have private TV monitors; one young man I saw was half-heartedly pedaling his bike while anxiously watching his team in a close game.
When I’m doing the weight circuit or working the elliptical, it’s interesting to people watch. I was observing a couple ahead of me on the weight machines the other day. They were bickering furiously, oblivious to where they were. Some patrons are trying to get into shape, others are trying to live forever, and others are doing rehab programs. I mentioned the workouts for Parkinson patients; some others come to do prescribed rehab for brand-new hips and knees. Adaptive sports are available for developmentally disabled athletes.
Exercise can be intensely solitary. Before my knees started talking to me, I was a pretty serious distance runner. Never a champion or even a serious competitor, but I would knock off three or four or five miles a workout. Now I do lap swimming. Both are solitary activities which can be surprisingly useful. If I’m working on a snarly writing problem like a dead end in my plot or recuperating a decidedly unlikable character, I find the best place to think about it is when I’m preoccupied with something else—like swimming, running, or driving.
And as much as I enjoy getting in touch with my body through the ancient arts of yoga and Tai Chi or communing with my own thoughts during a long swim, I do like working and playing with others. I’ve met a couple retired doctors and lawyers, and more than a few ex-teachers. I’ve heard more bad jokes than I’ve told in the steam room. I was sitting with a random group of steamers one day when one of the guys started talking about weirdness in the steam room. He was a talker, and a good one. I don’t doubt his stories were true—maybe stretched a bit, but I was pretty sure they were true. Who would make this stuff up?
He told us about how he shagged out a guy who was shaving in the steam room (one of my pet peeves), saying “What the hell is wrong with you? I don’t want to be sitting in your old hair and lather,” and about how, another time, he scolded a pair of women who were—of all things—eating their lunch in the steam room. “Get your soggy shit out of here!” The thought curled my stomach.
I like my gyms. I don’t particularly enjoy working out; it’s a necessary evil. My biological clock (no, not that one) is running, and I want the remainder of my time on this planet to be as enjoyable as possible. I’d prefer to be mobile, articulate, and coherent when I reach my twilight years (although the last may be too much to hope for), so I’ll swim and do weights and Tai Chi and all the rest of it. Having fun while doing it is nothing but a plus. But no. I will not do the lyrics to YMCA.