On a perfect week, I exercise five times. Basketball on Monday, weights at the office Tuesday and Thursday, yoga on Wednesday, and on Friday I’ll go to the best gym in America. The office has a workout room. Dumbbells, leg press, combo pulleys, and a Smith machine. As a tall man, the Smith machine is too short for me to squat with. Getting under the bar is like sitting in the backseat of an Acura RSX. It hurts my back and knees. Everything is fixed so I can’t move like I normally do.
But damn, do I love drinking a beet juice, a cold brew, and working out legs. It’s my own Arnold Palmer. So usually on Friday, I’ll drive up to San Marcos. There is a gym off the square called the San Marcos Athletic Club. It’s been open since 1972, and it’s open every day. There is no membership necessary. All you have to do is pay $2 to get strong.
The gym itself is beautiful. They play 99.5 KISS over the speakers. All the weights are brown and rusted, decaying with each passing day. It’s nearly the same setup as my former middle school weight room. It’s perfect. There are patrons working out in blue jeans and steel toed shoes. Others are Anabolic. There are no televisions or distractions. Everyone is in there with their lunch pail, getting their work done. After I’m soaked and finished, I’ll go run six to seven miles and then settle in for the rest of the weekend.
I love that place.
Anyways, that’s all I got. The floor is yours to discuss whatever. Talk about that or whatever else is on your mind—books, movies, food, drinks, music, other sports, hobbies, etc.—in the wide open expanse below. S.N.O.T. is what you make of it. Just remember all the standard commenting rules apply.