Peace, Grace, and Jazz!

{I’m writing each day in Lent 2024, having given up nothing like Pepsi or chocolate. I’m giving up the time it takes to reflect on rooms in my life, maybe yours, or somebody’s. Autobiographical writings of wanderings and wonderings into certain spaces, with the occasional typo.}

Then there’s that big room with all the scary athletic equipment: the gym. Our gym is comparatively small, a locally owned business, not one of those big national workout chains. Part of the building is for physical therapy, and part for exercise and “training.” Ironically, this very building, now dedicated to good health and fitness, was once a restaurant, and I think ice cream may have been their speciality. Would that we could all make that conversion from fat to muscle.

Joan and I joined the place shortly after moving to this area. Unlike many who join gyms at New Years and then absent themselves from the establishment within weeks, we’ve been irregulars there for 14 years. Our intention was to go three times a week, and walk or bike the other days. We’ve taken breaks, sometimes because of breaks, i.e., bones…where the rehab part comes in. And sometimes because of vacations or viruses, like that COVID thing. (The gym kindly extended our membership for those months lost.)

Mostly we can fit in once or twice a week now. We are busy people. Walking and biking are so much more pleasant, but this is Upstate New York, and winters are long, cold, and not friendly to outdoor recreation. So, there’s that warm, big, inviting gym. OK, not “inviting.” We try to come up with excuses why going today isn’t right for the schedule. Too tired. Too busy with this or that. Too…due…to go to the gym. So, we do drive over. It’s only a few minutes away. (If it were a half-hour drive, well, forget it.) We don’t go in the mornings, and that’s my fault. I like putting it off as long as possible, thinking I’d like to get the day started with more important and engaging things, like Wordle. So, late in the afternoon, we change clothes, get our gym shoes, and head off. On rare occasions, we are the only ones there! But most of the time we see a handful of folks we know only from the gym: the town supervisor, the nun who runs a local charity, some students sporting school logos on their tees, and now and then THAT guy, the one who sets every strengthening machine up to the max, whose muscles are covered in tats, and whose gym stuff is left all over the floor where we change from street shoes to what the Brits call “trainers.” Joan would love to remind him that his mother isn’t here to pick up after him, but I’ve cautioned her that he could beat me up.

We start with 20-30 minutes on a machine named Cybex. Sounds like the monster in a grade B sci-fi movie. It’s an arc trainer gadget with various settings for upping the pain. But the most important thing is that it has space for an e-reader. I use earbuds to listen to the Real Jazz station on SiriusXM to block out the poorly-tuned radio station the gymrats like, and I read my book to block out the countdown clock that I swear is terribly slow. Joan’s on the machine next to me, and I pretend my earbuds block her from my labored breathing. (I know…it doesn’t work that way.)

After that warm-up, it’s off to “the Cybex strength circuit,” as it’s called. Resistance training, right? I try to resist the whole thing, but I relent and spend another 20-30 minutes working out on those devices, sets and reps, etc. I think back to when I had set the weights and resistance tensions much higher. But I was 14 years younger back then. And didn’t have the rotator cuff issue, or the bad knee. But, hey, I’m still working out, right? Moving! Doing cardiac stuff. Breathing hard. Burning some calories. Building some muscle. Trying to put off the inevitable for as long as possible.

I may have mentioned before that I’m no athlete. Brother Kim did track, brother Steve played football. I took pictures. And after two required years of phys. ed. in college, my physical activity and “training” stopped. When we had bult a new home across the road from a county park, I began developing an interest in some small steps toward working out. I ran the jogging trail and did the exercise stations along the way. And I meditated on the First Song of Isaiah as I did it. “Surely it is God who saves me; (pant) I will trust the Lord and not be afraid…” (pant). Then there were the bicycles, and in moving to Vermont, cross-country skiing, a wonderful way to keep warm in -15 morning temps. More biking and hiking back in New York State.

Today, I should, right now, go to the gym. But there was the doctor’s appointment miles away this morning, paying bills this afternoon, and now this writing thing. And church tonight. So maybe tomorrow. There’s always tomorrow. Until there isn’t. So, we’ll be sure to get to that room before tomorrow’s sun sets. We’ll say hi to Cybex for you.