Train wreck

Well, after nearly two years of successfully averting the need to purchase a gym membership through my hodge-podge patronage of hotel gyms, apartment gyms, and kitchen table gyms, I finally caved. In a moment of weakness, I signed my name on a dotted line and agreed to pay $30 a month to get sweaty with a bunch of dudes in bro tanks. (By the way, I am seriously disturbed by what I like to call the Bro Tank Invasion. It’s sort of like the British invasion, except instead of everyone jamming to the Beatles, everyone is wearing ridiculous sleeveless garments that were designed for the express purpose of making the wearer look like a total douchewad.)

Anyway, as part of my new membership, the gym offered—and by offered, I mean aggressively forced upon me—one free personal training session. I tried, multiple times, to politely decline said offer. I even canceled the first appointment I made in hopes that I might quietly fall through the freebie-gym-session cracks, never to resurface again. Instead, the receptionist just went ahead and rescheduled me for another day and time.

So alas, aside from pulling a full-on no-show—which is a total dick move, because even greasy, over-juiced personal trainers have important things to do and important schedules to keep to (otherwise, how would they have time for gym, tan, and laundry?)—I was not going to get out of this thing.

With my fate sealed, I tried to keep an open mind. I really, really tried. But I just couldn’t shake the feeling that my complimentary workout was going to be a total disaster. Call it women’s intuition, call it five years of following Division I strength training programs—any way you slice it, I just couldn’t drum up the naivety necessary to respect personal trainers as real experts in exercise science.

When I arrived at the gym, I noticed a sign at the front desk advertising an upcoming educational workshop where you could earn a personal training certificate in just three days for only $399! So, while I spent my collegiate career following lifting plans carefully designed by professionals who’d spent years studying the intricacies of human kinesiology, I was about to entrust my health and wellbeing to some guy who attended a three-day seminar. Fantastic.

When I met my trainer—let’s call him Miguel—I could not help but notice that he was approximately 17 ½ years old. I also could not help but notice the not-so-subtly placed body fat percentage caliper directly in front of the chair where he invited me to take a seat. Clearly he knew that I, like all women, came to the gym in search of a cheaper, less invasive alternative to liposuction. (Cue eye roll.)

I was eager to get right into it—and, ahem, get it over with—but Miguel wanted to go all the way through the standard initial evaluation he’d probably learned about mere days prior. First, we talked about goals. What follows is a rough transcript of our conversation.

Miguel: So, Brooke, I see you signed up just a couple of weeks ago. What spurred you to join our gym? What are your goals for yourself?

Me: Well, uh, I signed up because the equipment in the workout room at my new apartment complex appears to be missing some very important components and also there are signs all over the place that say, “Use at Your Own Risk.” So, despite being a known and unabashed cheap-ass, I could not justify risking serious injury in the name of saving a few bucks. As for goals—well, mostly just maintenance and injury prevention. I’m a distance runner, so I’m not looking to get huge or anything.

Miguel: Hmmm, OK, OK. [Stalls as he fumbles for what to say next, as this scenario did not come up during the role play portion of the seminar.] So…you, uh, aren’t looking to like, lose five pounds, or gain five pounds, or anything like that?

Me: [Raising one eyebrow for 15 silent, uncomfortable seconds.] No.

Miguel: Right. I mean, I didn’t think you did. Or that you needed to. OK, well, let me tell you a little bit about what we do here at El-Lame Fitness.

Miguel proceeded to explain the philosophy behind the traditional Monday-Wednesday-Friday lifting schedule and to give me a short lesson in delayed-onset muscle soreness. At various points throughout his lecture, he stopped and—using a vaguely condescending tone of voice—posed questions to help frame his spiel. These included things like, “Now Brooke, can you tell me why our muscles feel sore after we work out?” Or: “Brooke, do you know why rest days are so important?” And even: “Can you guess what you need to eat to help your muscles repair and rebuild after a hard lift?”

Then, just to drive home his extremely important point about muscle recovery, he supplied a hand-drawn illustration, which I’ve reproduced below. (Side note: he had obviously practiced producing this figure several times, as he was able to draw it upside down with ease. I found this slightly more impressive than those waiters at Macaroni Grill who sign their names upside down on the paper tablecloth.)

When lesson time was finally over, he asked me what cycle I wanted to do that day: push, pull, or legs. (FYI: push and pull are both arm-exclusive workouts.) I told him I’m not really into the specific-muscle-group-on-a-specific-day thing, and I gently suggested we do something more circuit-like.

Now look, I know my sales experience is minimal (I’m still trying to get over the fact that I was the lowest-selling member of Brownie Troop #4408 during the 1996 Girl Scout Cookie season), but I always thought the first rule of sales was to give the customer what the customer wants.

So, if you’re trying to sell me on purchasing additional training sessions, maybe it would be a good idea to adjust the workout to suit my preferences rather than forcing me into a program I am clearly not interested in following. In my mind, this would be akin to telling a waiter you’re vegan and then furiously clenching your teeth as he launched into a longwinded sales pitch for the succulent bacon-wrapped filet mignon.

But there was no changing Miguel’s mind. There was no time for circuits during the three-day seminar, and that meant I had a decision to make. I reluctantly chose “push.” And push I did. Naturally, my arms were fatigued about three minutes into the workout. I begged Miguel to let me do some squats or lunges or calf raises or anything that involved the muscles below my waist. But he was ruthless. Finally, when I could barely lift my arm for a half-hearted fist-bump, Miguel announced that I would be ending the workout with push-ups.

“Are you effing kidding me right now?” I protested.

“Nope. Drop and give me ten.” He demanded.

I dropped all right. I dropped straight to the floor when my arms gave out beneath me on my first rep.

“Get down on your knees if you have to,” Miguel suggested.

At that point, angry annoyance gave way to full-on rage. In my world, girl push-ups are a form of public humiliation. I would sooner pick a wedgie while knowingly walking in front of Brad Pitt than voluntarily complete a girl push-up in the middle of a crowded gym. But Miguel made me do it, and now I am scarred for life. (Literally. The friction from the carpet on the floor tore open the skin on my knees and there’s a pretty good chance I contracted staph.) 

When I finally rose to my feet, blood trickling from my carpet-burned knees and daggers shooting from my eyes, Miguel knew he'd lost the sale. In fact, he didn't even ask me if I'd like to purchase a personal training package—probably the smartest thing he'd done all day. 

And now, just because, here's the movie clip where I am pretty sure Miguel learned his sales skills:

As merry as the snow is deep

When the weather is nice, it doesn’t take much coaxing to get yourself out the door for a run. Any argument to the contrary has very little substance. Like, would you ever say to yourself, “Sunny and 65 again. Great. Just Great. How am I supposed to train in such perfect conditions? God and Tim Tebow are obviously conspiring against me.”

No. You wouldn’t. You would sound like a whiny tool.

But when you’ve just survived the blizzard of the century—a storm that warranted the closure of public schools in Montana—a little whining is absolutely acceptable. In fact, if you didn’t complain about the snow, you wouldn’t have much to add to the water cooler conversation at work.

As a runner, however, you have way more cause for complaint than the run-of-the-mill “I had to dig my car out of the driveway,” or “I got stuck in the middle of the roundabout on the way to the office.”

Although it is easy to fall victim to a “poor me” kind of attitude when the weather is less than ideal, this is exactly the sort of situation when us runners most need our skills in positive self-talk.

So, in the spirit of reckless optimism, here are a few examples of ways to correct yourself when negative thoughts about winter running threaten to poison your psyche.

What you’re thinking: Why doesn’t anyone shovel their freaking sidewalk? I’m going to end up spraining my ankle on one of these frozen foot-divots, and then I’m going to sue the person that lives here for thousands of dollars.

What you should be thinking: All of this slick, uneven terrain is doing wonders for my foot and ankle strength. Whoever lives here must be a big proponent of stability exercises.

What you’re thinking: My feet are numb and soaking wet. This sucks worse than anything that has ever sucked before.

What you should be thinking: All of the extra water weight in my shoes is giving me an added strength-building benefit. Once I’m running on dry land, I will feel lightning-quick and totally unstoppable.

What you’re thinking: Running in freezing rain shouldn’t be allowed. I feel like the wind is purposely stabbing each icy droplet directly into my cornea.

What you should be thinking: Free exfoliation! Think of how much I’d have to pay at the spa for this sort of facial treatment!

What you’re thinking: It’s time to buy an effing gym membership.

What you should be thinking: I’m glad I’m not hiding out on the treadmill like some loser pansy. I’m a huge badass for running in this crap.

Home body

From the time I understood the concept of money, I have been a saver. As a child, I meticulously recorded every Tooth-Fairy-quarter deposit and gumball-machine withdrawal on a ledger inside of the shoebox that contained my life savings.

My frugality followed me into adulthood, and it has served me well in most respects. (I say “most,” because in some cases, you really do get what you pay for. Case in point: bottles of wine that cost less than $5.)

Anyway, when my gym membership expired a few months ago and I was faced with the decision of whether to shell out the cash to purchase a new one, I naturally wanted to make sure that I was getting the best possible deal. Actually, if I’m being totally honest, my membership didn’t so much “expire” as it was “revoked by the manager” after she found out that I was still using the free children’s membership on my parents’ account. She didn’t buy into my argument that since President Obama says you can stay on your parents’ health insurance until you’re 26, you should be able to stay on your parents’ health club membership until you’re 26. I guess you can only work the system for so long.

After a few weeks of shopping around, I still hadn’t found a price that suited my needs or tastes. Plus, due to my propensity for extreme cheapness, I took great pleasure in the fact that my workouts weren’t costing me a dime. In the meantime, I maintained my muscular fitness by performing a variety of strength exercises in the comfort of my own home. After a few workouts, I had developed an entire fitness regimen using nothing more than a chair, my kitchen table and one 20-pound dumbbell that I found at the back of my closet. And you know what? I might never set foot inside a gym again. And if you tried it, you might not either.

“Impossible!” you say. “I’m much too serious an athlete to be doing sit-ups in my living room!”

Well, I have four Big Sky Conference track and field medals, and I’m here to tell you that you’re never too serious for a home workout. Here’s why:

1. You never have to wait for equipment. It never fails: at the gym, once you’ve gotten into a perfect rhythm and you’re totally in the zone, some annoying meathead will plop his big, sweaty, steroid-pumping ass down at your station, where he’ll remain for the next 35 minutes. You will be forced to completely rework your routine, and the interruption will throw off your entire workout. But at home, you get to use whatever you want, whenever you want—just as long as the things you want include a 20-pound weight or a kitchen table.

2. You can sweat as much as you want without embarrassment. When I work out, I get sweaty. Like, really, really sweaty. I’ve always been self-conscious of the perspiration splatters, drops and puddles that seem to follow me wherever I go, especially if the weight room is full of cute boys. When I’m at home, the only thing I have to worry about is ruining the carpet, and in the apartment I live in, that’s pretty much a non-issue.

3. You don’t have to listen to Steve Winwood. Nothing ruins a good workout faster than bad music. How am I supposed to get my swell on with “Bring me a higher love…di dee di dee di di” blaring in the background? At home, I can get pumped up with my own iTunes playlist or my “Fergalicious” station on Pandora.

4. You can work out in your underwear. Although exercising in your unmentionables is generally frowned upon in most gyms, you don’t have to think twice about it in the privacy of your own living room. It might sound weird, but it’s actually much cooler and less restrictive—plus, you’re left with less dirty laundry!