My health club has never been so tidy.
Pre-pandemic, I would arrive for my pre-dawn workouts knowing that before I could do anything, I would have to wipe down the StairMaster and clear the paper towels, plastic bottle caps, and chewing gum from the cup holder. It always was a crapshoot whether there would be any paper towels or disinfectant in the dispensers.
No longer. These days, I arrive at the gym to find at least one staffer, and often two, walking the floor, cleaning equipment. Not just a quick spritz, a complete wipe down. Members who used to leave behind a trail of sweat-stained, litter-strewn equipment now dutifully clean up after themselves. There’s plenty of disinfectant for everyone.
So, I suppose there’s something to be said for living through a pandemic.
It was immediately apparent that the coronavirus changed the gym experience. On the day that my club reopened two months ago, I stopped at the front desk to ask a quick question about my membership. Between the noisy, cranked-up HVAC and the bemasked manager, my one question took nearly 10 minutes to resolve. (In retrospect, I’m not sure that turning up the A/C created a healthier environment.)
As for masks, well, you knew it wouldn’t be long before we got to that. They’ve become mandatory while walking around my Florida club but are not required while exercising. Young staffers chase after mask offenders to remind them to cover up. The whole regimen is puzzling. If a mask works — perhaps I’ve followed Alex Berenson’s Twitter feed too closely, but I’m dubious of its efficacy — then does it make sense to wear it when you’re not exerting yourself but to take it off while huffing and puffing through a Tabata set on the elliptical machine?
It’s one of the many contradictions of the coronavirus era.
To reduce surface touching, doors are kept open at my club. So, even if you’re not taking the Zumba class in the studio next to the weight room, you’re there in spirit, your reps synced to the Latin beat.
The weight room has become an elaborate daily dance, as we try, with mixed success, to maintain some distance from the guy on the adjacent chest-press machine while we’re working the pectoral fly. In the cardio area, there’s still some solace. Get on the machine, click on a YouTube podcast, and zone out for 30 minutes or an hour.
But the weight room? That’s a whole different story. Every movement is calculated. That lat-pulldown machine in the corner? That’s off-limits until the young woman there finishes her sets. You don’t want to be clustering in a confined space. Those 45-pound weights? Make sure you wipe them down before and after you throw them on the Hammer Strength high row machine. And whatever you do, keep your distance from the senior citizens. It sounds terrible, but we’ve all seen the data. Protect the most vulnerable.
One of the ironies of “health clubs” is that they’re anything but healthy. A typical fitness club is a giant petri dish with a steady succession of people using the same weights, cardio equipment, lockers, bathrooms, and showers. It takes a pandemic to hammer that home, even for someone like me, who has been a member of various clubs for more than 30 years. These days, there’s no denying that moment of panic when you pick up a dumbbell before realizing you haven’t sanitized it.
For this reason, the kettlebell has become my new best friend, yet another concession I’ve made to the coronavirus. I wipe down the kettlebell before my workout and after my workout, and then I’m done, finished, outta there. It’s not a perfect solution, but it’s the kind of accommodation one makes in these strange times. And don’t even think about swimming a half-mile after your workout. That brings into play a whole new set of issues: the pool, the showers, the locker room. Better to keep it simple: work hard, get your sweat on, and get out of there.
The saddest part, however, is that there is no “club” in our health club. The 6-foot separation of Keiser cycles and Life Fitness cardio equipment seems arbitrary, but the impact is predictable. There’s little interaction. Similarly, most of the lockers are sealed off to promote social distancing, more an ideal than a reality in such a confined space. So, rather than say “good morning” to other members, the default is to duck your head, lest you breathe on them.
By the time I leave the gym, I still have that good tired feeling that I had pre-pandemic. But these days, it’s accompanied by another feeling: relief.
Martin Kaufmann has covered sports for more than two decades, including 16 years as senior editor at Golfweek.
