Yep – my LA Fitness location is finally closing its doors after many underwhelming decades. It’s strange for me to eulogize such a place, but I calculated that since moving to LA, I’ve worked out there over 2800 times, the equivalent of 87 consecutive full days.
When you accrue that kind of time, you can’t help but stumble across a cast of characters. Like the guy I’ve talked sports with every morning for five years who still thinks my name is Steve. Or the large, albino-looking fella who walks around muttering homophobic slurs to himself. We call him Baby Huey. I’m convinced he will rape a man.
Okay, it’s not your typical SoCal clientele, but the blame is on the gym itself. A few years ago, a new 24-Hour Fitness rolled into the neighborhood, and LA Fitness refused to give in to the threat of better hours, new equipment and pube-free urinals.
Most lacking in membership was women, and every workout surrounded by old dudes felt entirely like prison. A handful of us hung in there, thanks to free parking right out front, never having to wait for any bench or machine and the inconceivably-low monthly rate of $8. Eight bucks! Well worth risking a staph infection.
I’ll never forget the night a heavyset gentleman overexerted himself on a Stairmaster, and paramedics were unable to resuscitate him. The location manager stayed strong throughout the ordeal, even handing out “Bring a Friend Get a Free Month!” passes as we exited the gym later. You stay classy, LA Fitness.
Well, now no one is coming to revive this joint. It’s got two weeks to live, and then we’re all getting paroled, and we’ll begin paying real money to work out in places where we’ll sip protein smoothies, and work out on equipment that’s not only up to code but has Internet built-in, and cute female members will motivate us do five more reps and rarely, yes rarely will we get sodomized by albino goons off their meds.
And we’ll miss the hell out of our old shithole. Because it was our shithole. Rest in peace.
