Gold's Standards and Train Wrecks

Michael Alexander and I were in Massachusetts for a few days last week, visiting with his Babushka, Auntie Shurinka and Uncle Johnny, and attending a memorial service for a dear friend's mother who died of cancer. My Mom suggested we take Amtrak to Springfield instead of Metro-North for a more luxurious ride. True the soft bucket seats are nicer than the commuter rail's communal rows, but that's if you can get one. The Vermonter was about half full when it arrived in Penn Station from Washington, and there was one empty seat in each row. The Vermonter is clearly the Loner Express. Lugging Little Mikey is his car seat along with a heavy suitcase, diaper bag and purse, I made my way to end of the last car, finding a single empty seat in each row. Not a single person offered to share a seat with another passenger so we could have a row. Placing Little Mikey on the ground, I asked the woman sitting alone in the last row if she'd mind sharing a seat with another passenger so I could secure his car seat, as safely as possible, in a seat next to mine. Clad in high-waisted, stone-washed, baggy jeans and a white acrylic turtleneck, the Walmartian looked up and said, "No, my book is here," pointing to a tattered 'Intro to French' paperback. Dismayed, I said, "You won't give up a seat for my infant son so you can place your book there?" "I have a friend coming," she quipped. Little surprise this woman traveled the whole way sans friend, sprawling out across both seats, napping and kicking the seats we finally acquired in front of her when she wasn't gabbing on her relic of a cell phone with her brother in Bellows Falls (population 3,000), clearly her only companion on her sad life voyage. At about 45, this bumpkin who, according to a chat with bro, was born, bred and will croak in this vile village, was among the youngest travelers on this train to nowhere _ slow. One of the only other passengers who was clearly not headed to Vermont, agreed to share a seat with someone else so I could care for my baby. At least the train was on time, a major feat for Amtrak, which over the last eight years has abandoned any commitment to customer service. Michael Alexander and I were both battling colds when we arrived in Springfield, and have since passed the illness on to my immune-challenged Mom. The best remedy for near-pneumonia, along with a powerful Z-pack and codeine for sleeping, is working out to exhaustion. On Friday I headed to the Gold's Gym in West Springfield, a sort of anti-Crunch where sexuality is repressed at all costs. Great facility for lifting heavy (my favorite) and cardio (since so few use the machines). There are four standard patrons at this Gold's. The high school and higher-ed jocks, who shun steroids in favor of a lean physique, command the weight machines, speaking quietly and keeping to themselves. As I warmed up with 45 minutes on the stair climber and elliptical, two guys plunked on ab machines like they were Barcaloungers kept looking over without burning a calorie. "I don't do cardio," the older one said. "It's not good for you." "I'm with you," the younger one agreed. "Yeah," the older one added, "My cousin and another guy I know died from doing cardio." This pair represents the Guns and Guts contingent at Gold's, the men of all demographics who build up bi's and tri's and chest and shoulders, but couldn't hold plank for 10 seconds or run a mile. The third, and most interesting or quintessentially Gold's group, are the roid-raging power lifters. Awesomeness to the nth degree. The fourth standard, of course, are the women; all four of us including me. I believe the one 89-pound bluehair walking a 22-minute mile on a treadmill was straight. And for the record, even with a cold, I lifted about three times as heavy as the woman with the closest crop. Aaah, Gold's, I will be back when I return to Massachusetts, a far, far way from Lafayette Crunch.