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Health & Fitness

Who Goes to the Gym at 4:30am??? by Chris Brennan

An early morning commitment to fitness, hoping one day it will get easier.

The alarm sounds at 4:25am, and more often than not, I am already awake. Karen lies motionless, while Murphy slowly opens one eye and gives a look that says, "If you think this is time for walkies pal, you got another thing comin." I slowly grope through the darkness to find some sweatpants, shoes, and a shirt to wear to the gym. This doesn't take long, as I know quite well that the 4:30am trip to the gym is no fashion show (unlike those 7pm yahoos...). My goal is to just try and find enough clothes to wear to the gym to meet minimal dress code requirements.

Driving through sleepy Belmont Shore into downtown Long Beach to get to 24 Hour Fitness, my brain slowly starts to catch up with the rest of my body. I have been driving for approximately seven minutes when my brain finally ascertains where I am, and then promptly tells me how much I hate that new Maroon 5 song I have been mindlessly listening to. ("Moves like Jagger"? Is that what he's saying? He wishes.)

As I approach the entrance, I see the familiar smiling face at the front desk ready to greet all comers. Perhaps due to the early hour of the day, or my tendency towards introversion in these settings, I have never actually spent more than 20 seconds in conversation with this gentleman, who I am fairly sure has a fascinating back story which causes him to work an 11pm-7am shift while working on intricate art pieces. As I enter, I am able to muster the standard, "It's cold out there" line as I check in. I judge myself poorly on that one.

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For the most part, the 4:30am gym-goers are a quiet bunch of strangers, even though we see each other 4-5 times a week. There is very little in terms of conversation, smiles, or even eye contact. We are all in this together, but we don't really seem to have the inclination or perhaps the energy to do much about it. As a result, my workout is accompanied by two very important partners: my iPod and my internal monologue.

"Oh, Muscle Girl is here today, haven't seen her in a few days."

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"Hello, Ron Burgundy guy."

"I wonder if Ham Arms guy owns one shirt with sleeves?"

This goes on the entire time I work out. I start slowly on the treadmill, as I can barely tell if it's the old machine or perhaps my knees making that creaking sound. Gradually, I start the running, and it never seems to get easier.

"Muscle girl never seems to run, she is always on the stairclimber. Maybe that's what I should do...but the stairclimber was invented by the Devil..."

I am starting to breathe hard, the sweat is starting to come down, I look down and I realize I have only been running for six minutes. Ugh.

Finally, I am off the treadmill, and on to the weights. First, I venture into the "free weights" section of the gym to sip some water. I instantly feel out of place, almost as if i have wandered into the first class section of the plane and that I could be escorted out at any minute. I swiftly return to the "machine weights" section of the gym where my kind are more accepted. I have been coming to this gym for a few years now and I have yet to see someone "ripped" ever using the machine weights. This creates a conundrum for me, for I would love to be ripped...but I feel like an alien in the free weights world. I don't spend much brain power on this conundrum however, because this damn "shoulder press" thingy is killing me.

Over by the Spin room, I see three people who share approximately six percent body fat, chatting. I refer to these people as the "Fitness 3". They are in impeccable shape, but I never actually see them exercising, just visiting with each other. What could they be talking about?

"Oh hi Jim, I ran a billion miles yesterday."

"Me too, then I did push-ups."

I walk past the Fitness 3 on my way to get a drink from the only cold water fountain here, located in the Spin Room. (I always refer to this as the Jazzercise Room, but I would never tell anyone this.) Inside the room, the spin teacher is preparing for the first class of the day, by moving bikes all around, and playing some ungodly loud music that makes me feel like I am in a Prague discotheque.

Back at the weights, I try my very best to summon the intensity I witnessed from the "Pacquiao/Marquez-24/7" episode last night on HBO. This, and a really great early 80's tune from Simple Minds on my iPod, seems to work well for me, as I suddenly get a burst of confidence like I am doing some real good for my body. Alas, as I finally become willing to look in the mirror, a guy who could be a body double for Terrell Owens strides by me. I guess I have some more work to do.

So, 47 minutes after it began, I declare myself done with the work out. Three (or four?) more to go this week. I know this is good for me, and I certainly feel healthy most days, but I must confess that I thought I should be a bit more "ripped" by now. I have deluded myself into thinking that if I got up this early to go the gym, that there would perhaps be some "bonus" muscles that would appear, just by my showing up (didn't it work for Rocky?). Tragically this hasn't occurred, and the fact that I am so fond of IPA's and sausage pizza certainly doesn't help.

But I will keep going. My 4:30am family needs me there.

"Goodbye workout friends. Until next time."

 

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