Anson Stevens-Bollen
I recall a sense of moderate unease during my last trip the the gym: An extra few wipes to clean the StairMaster before battling it, a suspicious glance at the fellow who'd just set down the dumbbells I needed, brave some knee chafing to spare myself the exercise mat, and no chance am I getting in the steam room.
Like so many things in this foggy Escher sketch we call reality nowadays, it feels like a lifetime or three ago.
It was March 6—five days before the first cases of COVID-19 emerged in New Mexico. On March 19, Gov. Michelle Lujan Grisham's administration officially shut down the gyms as part of ever-tightening restrictions aimed at reducing the virus' spread. (I like to think gyms were ghost towns by then, but I'm certain they weren't.)
Readers familiar with my oeuvre—meticulous reviews of bloody marys and even less healthful culinary options, disclosure of a chronic lung condition and the documenting of human misery—plus my public facing disdain for most things good might be pausing to ask right about now: Wait, you go the gym?
Why, yes. Yes, I do.
Well, I did.
According to an email I received from my fitness center just before the end of the world, my year anniversary was March 10. For the most part, I've taken it quite seriously and am in significantly better shape at 45 than I was at 35.
But I'd never worked out at home, save for a few push-ups and unweighted wall squats during perfunctory attempts at "fitness" through the years. What to do?
For four days I sulked, certain I was the only wretch alive set to hand his hard-won #gainz over to the damned new coronavirus. Then, lark! The internet!
Turns out, half the country was talking about how to ensure tone and mass without being able to sculpt their guns in front of others. Turns out, lots of folks have been doing it for years.
I did a little Googling and, soon enough, was off to the races. In the home office closet, behind a stack of old newspapers I'd never want a fire marshal to see, I found one of those blow-up exercise balls. It was still in the box, but the little plastic pump was not. I unearthed that from the garage (under still more old newspapers) and, presto!
Things were starting to cook.
I'm a journalist, see, and things are tight (please donate at sfreporter.com/friends!) but I was gonna need more than the ball. I grabbed my sleeve of Clorox wipes and braved the wilds of an area fitness supply store. This was before such places were shut down, but the clerk knew it was just a matter of time. He'd seen two customers all day and was happy to sell me a $65 exercise mat for $40 and a pair of 25-pound, cast-iron kettlebells on a buy-one-get-one basis.
I was out the door for less than $75.
For many of you, I realize my paltry excuse for a home gym wouldn't get the job done. But it's amazing just how many exercises one can accomplish with a ball, a mat and two reasonably heavy weights.
I converted my little sun porch into a workout space and have been doing the thing five days a week for nearly a month. Much as I miss the steam room—and for me, there's no cardio substitute for the StairMaster—I almost prefer this to the gym. Blasting the Grateful Dead show of my choice as opposed to hassling with earbuds or enduring the gym's AC/DC- and Train-fueled playlists during workouts may have something to do with this. (Please, no more "Drops of Jupiter.")
I've stayed in shape and, as importantly during these increasingly dark times, I've done immeasurable favors for my mental health.
I know other folks have shifted to online exercise or yoga classes via Zoom, Google Hangouts or pick your technological witchcraft (see the handy list we've compiled if this is your jam), but I'm here to say a DIY solo mission cobbled together on the cheap works just as well.
