A city’s topography is almost always a bit of a memory map. Here is the coffee nook where you once met your first love, holding hands and playing footsie under the table; there is the shop where you bought your convocation sari or wedding jewellery; here is the bookshop where you discovered a life-altering novel; there is the restaurant you took your parents to after you received your first salary cheque.
My most poignant memories of the city are often linked to the exercise spaces I have visited in it. I have spared very few along the 12-km stretch between Anna Nagar and RA Puram: from the first dodgy, dank space in Kilpauk I discovered at 14 to an intense boot camp in the open, a couple of vinyasa yoga classes, martial arts and dance classes, a power-lifting gym…
For most, the pattern was woefully similar: I started with great enthusiasm, waking up early morning to ensure that I had time to catch an auto or drive (when I was driving, somewhat badly, I must admit) or cab across. For a month, I would be so very good about it, rolling out of bed when the alarm rang, putting off all writing or reading till my workout was completed, ensuring that my workout-wear was ready the night before, so I didn’t waste time scrabbling for my sports bra in my lingerie drawer, in the morning.
Then life would happen — a late-night phone call that bled into the wee hours of the morning, an evening movie followed by dinner and a long drive, a visit to a friend’s or significant other’s place that ended up becoming a sleepover, the multiple existential or romantic crises I go through at regular intervals that keep away the sandman and his bag of sleep-inducing dust — and the exercise would stop. “It is too much effort to go so far away. I just don’t have the time,” I told myself, opting instead for a walk or the rather terrible gym across from home, populated by inadequate trainers and rusty equipment. Like my love and work life, my exercise routine existed in crests and troughs: the good days were fantastic and the bad ones were the pits.
As I type this column, however, I am proud to admit that I have been consistent with something for close to six months now. I now train at a functional fitness studio, five minutes away from my place, probably the best thing that has happened to me since the discovery of (low-fat) honey mustard dressing (sliced bread is not a food group I subscribe to, of course). There is something intensely comforting of being able to roll out of bed in the morning and simply head to class: it takes the stress away from having to plan your life around your exercise session.
Which is why, I’ve become a firm advocate of choosing a training centre close to home (if you are a morning exercise person, especially) or workplace. It doesn’t matter how good the gym or trainer is, if you don’t show up; convenience and proximity are a lot more important than high-end technology or showy interiors. Really.
There are multiple studies that indicate that only a very small percentage of people who pay up for training sessions, actually attend it: travel, work, personal stuff etc all get in the way. Let us be honest, most of us do have lives outside the gym, and if getting to one is an effort (anything more than 15 minutes is), you are more likely than not to ditch it. And end up spiralling into an abyss of inactivity, that you will only acknowledge when your pants don’t fit.
