I have a complicated relationship with the gym. Meaning, I hate it.
I hate the rows of machines. I hate that I typically end up getting sick after going. I hate how sweaty I get working out inside, with no (real) breeze to cool me down. I hate how bored I get, and how depressing it is to look around at everyone in motion, yet going nowhere.
All that said, to each his own. And I go to the gym at least a few times a year, whether it's an easy dose of exercise at a hotel, a novelty while joining a friend, a reprieve from horrible weather outside or, like this last week, with my dad.
My dad lives in the northeast United States, where he worries about things like having a car that handles well in the ice and snow, and not falling down as he gets older.
Alaskans worry about similar things — but we slap studded tires on our cars and Yaktrax on our shoes and get on with our lives. Somehow, the state of Massachusetts collectively chooses to shake its fist at winter and hope for the best.
I never understood that. I left when I was a teenager, looking for a place where winter was embraced. I found Alaska.
Still, I worry about my dad like a good child should. He has a home office now, and the good news is that he only really needs to leave the house if he has somewhere to be. But the bad news is also he rarely really needs to leave the house.
I sometimes think about him walking from the kitchen up the stairs to the office, back to the kitchen, and then to the couch to watch the news. I don't need a Fitbit to tell me that's not a lot of steps. I don't need a doctor to tell me all that sitting is bad for his health, including mobility. His fear of falling isn't unfounded.
I've been trying to goad him to simply get outside and walk more. I've shared my running calendar with him. I've asked him to commit to a goal alongside me — if I'm running a marathon, maybe he can choose a similarly ambitious goal that he is excited about and gently train for it. Maybe that's a 3-mile hike. He's always talking about how much he would like to go backpacking. He could choose a modest trail and build up toward it.
But if you look up the word "suburban" in the dictionary, you'll see a picture of my hometown. Sure, there are sidewalks. In fact, pavement crisscrosses the entire sprawling town. My mom used to say that if you stuck a bubble over Framingham, you could call it a mall. There are some really beautiful state parks and forests. But you have to drive to them. And riding a bike? Forget it. I value my skull too much to risk those winding corners, with no shoulder and terrifying Boston drivers whipping around every turn.
So my dad has been walking more, but he says it's just not all that inspiring. I get it. I encourage him to get out on trails on the weekends and to look at those midweek outings as a dose.
In this spirit, when I'm back in Massachusetts I often find myself saying the darnedest things. Like, "Let's go get Whole Foods salad bar for lunch." Or, "I'm going shopping." And, most surprisingly, "Dad, let's go to the gym."
Sometimes rote practice leads to habit. If that habit can transform over time into assurance for my dad's safety when it gets cruddy and icy outside, maybe the gym will prove its worth to me. I hate the gym a little less when I look over and see him on the bike pedaling away. Even if he is not going anywhere, I hope it adds up to something.
Allí Harvey lives in Palmer and plays in Southcentral Alaska.