During my last trip to West Point I had occasion to visit the pool area. Being in proximity of the old gym brought back many memories. Some of triumph, some of dejection, some of pain, but all of wonder.
I recall Judo team captain Keith Huber turning the thermostat in the wrestling room where we practiced to its highest setting, he wanted to be sure that we got a good workout.
I remember stooping to enter a small but heavy door which, when closed, sealed a large wooden box that was a racquetball court. No glass walls. No balcony for spectators. Just a fully enclosed arena where you and your opponent met in one-on-one combat. It was the essence of competition, of friendly, but determined, warfare.
And the weights. Oh, the weights. Rust-edged plates of iron hoisted by determined men who gave voice to their sinew-straining exertions. Men loudly exhorted by comrades of similar bent, “C’mon, one more!”, “Get mean, dammit, let’s go!”, “Push it, no pussies here!”. The air in the room was thick with heat, sweat, and the odor of Atomic Balm. It was the Valhalla of the iron game, the Mecca where the thick of arm would pilgrimage to grow stronger and aspiring lifters would go to train and test themselves.
Memories.
When Arthur Jones brought his then new Nautilus machines to West Point, some of us knew we’d reached the promised land. A twenty minute workout, three times per week, and we were home free. We paired up and signed on for time slots in two minute intervals. One man coached the other through his workout, then the roles were reversed. One set of each exercise per machine, six to twelve repetitions, to muscle exhaustion.
To muscle exhaustion. The cacophony of the coaches rivaled the cadre of the first day of Beast Barracks as they cajoled, shamed, and screamed their charges through a routine that would have pleased a grinning Marquis de Sade. It was quite a sight to see the best conditioned college students in the country emptying their stomachs into the nearest waste basket or out the window.
More memories.
It’s different today. The Nautilus machines back then utilized highly polished cams which guided the links of a chain that were attached to the weight being lifted. The chain would rattle through the range of motion during the exercise with the weights clanging loudly as the exhausted individual could simply not do “just one more”. It was obvious that something significant was occurring here, that poundage was being lifted by straining muscles defying the law of gravity.
The chain has been replaced by a thick rubber strap which now quietly glides the weights through their range of travel. The cam is painted a sterile white, apparently meeting the approval of the housewife as she gently moves through her workout, enjoying the latest tunes on her MP3 player or excitedly comparing nail polish shades with her neighbor.
Health clubs. The kaffeeklatsch of the new millennium.
Don’t misunderstand me. The notion that hard, intense, exercise is an all-male endeavor is not my view. I still remember the picture of Carol Barkalow bent at the waist with a man flying over her back as she executed a shoulder throw during West Point’s Recondo. I vividly recall Jennifer Koch, who refused to give ground during intensive Krav Maga training. And I will never forget Shari Hardy, whose Krav “warmup” left me questioning my sanity.
Three women with whom I’d unhesitatingly stand back to back in any brawl. But I wasn’t finding their ilk in the modern, glitzy, semi-perspiration palaces where “working out” is as often a euphemism as it is a description of hard work.
Let me illustrate further.
As I was groaning through a particularly tough exercise one day I noticed a distinctive aroma in the air. It had to be strong for me to break concentration. It was coconut, and it was coming from the dainty princess playing on the machine next to me. I love coconut. Self-restraint prevented me from acting on my primal impulse to lick the lotion from her body but it couldn’t prevent another predictable reaction: I finished my workout amid the growling of my complaining stomach. Sweat, old socks, even B.O., OK (after all, it is a gym), but food?
Even that old stalwart, the free weight, has changed.
It was years before I could find a barbell bench press that didn’t have some sort of safety mechanism attached to keep Joe Sixpack from hurting himself and having his horde of lawyers put the club out of business. The problem with these setups is they force you to lift through an unnatural range of motion. Also, due to the mechanism involved, the weight lifted isn’t true. As an experience, it’s decidedly unsatisfying.
Not too long ago I was doing a bench press workout with 100 pound dumbbells. Historically, these will hit the floor with a loud, satisfying crash of metal against tile, a resounding sonic boom, an aural feast announcing to the world that something profound has just occurred, that an experience of significance has been had by one to be envied by all.
But not this day. As I dropped the weights – and I don’t make this stuff up – they bounced! The rubber coated plates met the rubberized floor and gaily hopped, like the fairy sprite in the forest. No crash. Not even a dull thud. More like a “flup-bup”.
Kinder, gentler weights, whispering machines, princesses with a culinary air. It’s enough to make an anti-depressant addict of Arnold.
And then…
I was walking out when I saw her. She bore the pale visage of significant exertion, not the ruddy, tomato “glow” of the unconditioned. Her lips, bright pink against her white face, were slightly parted as her body was still in oxygen debt. A blue, one-piece workout suit clung hard to her body, heavy with sweat. Her hair was matted against her forehead and when she lifted an arm, droplets raced each other to the floor.
Ahhh.
It had been a while since I’d seen anything quite so beautiful. There might still be hope.
~ Dempsey 🌵
Photo Credit: Supawat Punnanon / EyeEmGetty Images
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