Please Scroll Down to See Forums Below My gym way hard core.........PLANET FITNESS!! Ugh, there are no standard benches, only smith machines. Dumbells only go up to 60lbs. Mostly machines, which I've pretty much maxed out all of them. I recently moved, and there are only two gyms to choose from. The other is pretty hard core, but they wanted $800 to join, plus $200 enrollment fee, then it's $65 a month....F that!
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how many of you guys have trained in a real hardcore gym?
- Thread starter camshaft
- Start date
blackpanther
New member
Apexx said:
Sounds like a load of shit to me!! My home gym is loads better than that place the way you describe it.
This has been posted before but considering the topic, I thought it worthy of a reprise.
FINDING HARDCORE BODYBUILDING
A Gym Story
Nelson Montana
It was still bitterly cold when the snow had finally
stopped falling. As I peered outside my bedroom window,
I could see that the roads were as good as closed.
Nothing short of a heavy duty SUV could work its way
through what looked like two or three feet of thickly
packed powder. It was worse than yesterday, which was
worse than the day before. Nevertheless, I wasn't going
to let it stop me. Today, I had to get to the gym --
anyway I could.
Just to make sure they were open for business, I gave a
call. One ring. Two rings. Then a voice:
"Hello, Bellrose Gym. Joe speaking. Can I help you?"
"Yes, are you open today?" I asked.
The somewhat agitated voice at the other end answered,
"Unfortunately, we are. Can you believe it? I mean,
who's going to come out on a day like this? If I didn't
live next door to this place, there's no way I'd be
here. The joint's deserted."
"But you are open?" I reiterated.
"Yeah, yeah. Regular hours today. Don't ask me why."
"Thanks. See ya." I hung up the phone and picked up my
gym bag. I was on my way.
I set my mind to the fact that walking through the snow
drifts would make a nice warm up, as if the expression
can be applied to such a situation. On any other day,
the three quarter of a mile distance to the gym was a
piece of cake. Today, it was going to be rough. But I
wanted to go. My body craved activity. I needed to lift
iron and no excuse was going to stop me.
The Bellrose Gym isn't what one would call a "hardcore"
club. It's of the commercial variety designed for
casual fitness seekers and overweight housewives. The
layout is made up of mostly stationary bikes,
treadmills and a smattering of exercise machines. Half
of the floor space is reserved for various types of
aerobics classes. But it was downstairs, in the
basement, where I was headed -- dark, dank and reserved
for anybody who really wanted to train. It had weights,
benches and more weights. Nothing fancy. Yet, it did
have a power cage and dumbells that went up to 100
pounds and it welcomed anyone who chose to forgo the
niceties of the main floor and enter into the "pain
zone." As grungy as it was, the basement wasn't a
bodybuilders' hang out in the traditional sense. There
was never any talk of competing, nor did anyone of any
prominence train there. I doubt if any of the members
were juicing or had ever so much as seen the stuff.
Still, I've never known a group of guys that worked
harder and more seriously. Some of the patrons had
amazing physiques -- thick, vascular and defined. But
even those who weren't genetically blessed, still
attacked the iron with ferocity.
When I finally finished my trek though the suburban
tundra, I stomped as much of the icy sleet off my boots
as I could and walked though the doors of the club. As
far as I could see, there wasn't a single person in the
place. A lone figure, who I assumed was "Joe" was
sitting at the front desk reading a newspaper, arms
folded, hunched forward. As I approached him, he
maintained his relaxed posture except that his eyes
glanced sideways in my direction.
"You're the one who called?" he asked without much
enthusiasm.
"Who else?"
Joe was indifferent to my attempt at humor through the
usage of stating the obvious. As I went to take my
membership card from my spongy soaked wallet, he looked
back down at the paper and grumbled, "Go on in."
It was eerie perusing the gym floor. The usually
boisterous aerobics room was closed. A notice on the
wall stated; "No classes today due to the inclement
weather." Where there was typically several people
waiting for a bike, a custodian was getting in some
clean-up time. The treadmills were vacant. I had free
reign to any machine I wanted. I walked downstairs.
I anticipated the stark absence of clanging plates and
the mournful groans that were ever present in the
basement whenever someone attempted to hoist a poundage
that refused to budge. Instead, I noticed something
surprising. There were about eight or nine people who
also made it out into the gym and down to the dungeon.
Maybe it wasn't so surprising after all.
I wasn't especially close with anyone there but I'd
seen them all before. They were the regulars -- the
guys who you noticed but didn't necessarily associate
with. One thing was certain though. They were serious
lifters.
Anyone who couldn't hang would be upstairs, not here.
As I got into my routine, it was hard not to
acknowledge the others who were also training. It
wasn't as if we could maintain anonymity through the
din and congestion of a "normal" training day. We were
it. I gave a knowing nod to one of the guys passing me
as he grabbed a set of heavy dumbells from the rack. As
I started my next set, a peculiar sensation came over
me. I felt as if I was suddenly being judged by my
peers. Under everyday circumstances, I'm oblivious to
what anyone thinks about my training or the poundage
that I use. Bodybuilding, for me, is a solitary
activity. It's my therapy. My meditation. But today, I
truly felt as if I was among a brethren. These men were
here for the same reason I was. We were all, at least
in one way, the same.
I racked the 45 pound dumbells and picked up the 60s.
The next set, I went even heavier. I wanted to make
this workout count. Halfway into the session, there was
an undeniable electricity in the air. Everyone was
pushing harder than normal. It was as if this select
group had become one mind. Bars bent under the pressure
of accumulating plates. Masses of metal defied gravity
through the sheer force of human sinew. At one point,
I noticed a trainee staring at a dauntingly heavy
barbell. It was almost like he was communicating with
it -- daring it to beat him as it had done so many
times before. Suddenly, he lunged down, grasped the
bar, and cleaned it to his shoulders. Just then, he let
out a bellow of agony. No one flinched. He's got it. We
all knew it. He then pushed the weight overhead,
shaking under the pressure. `Nice lift,' I thought to
myself. When he returned the bar to his shoulders, he
took a deep breath and shouted out loud, "That's ONE."
I was amused and impressed. He knocked out three more
reps. That's the way you do it.
The energy in the room was building and I had ceaseless
enthusiasm for the rest of the workout, lifting more
weight than ever before. My usual rep range of 8 to 10
was no longer the desired number. In fact, I stopped
counting. I just kept going. At the end of a grueling
set of seated presses, one of the members stood behind
me as I was reaching failure. He shouted; "Come on! You
got four more!" For some inexplicable reason, I
believed him. At least, I wanted to. So I strained and
stressed and with every ounce of strength I could
muster, and with just the slightest bit of help from my
comrade, I made that fourth rep. And then a fifth --
followed by partial reps at the top of the movement
until it felt as if my entire torso was on fire! When
every last bit of energy left my body, I slammed the
bells down to the floor and gasped for air. It felt
good.
It was then when my acquaintance made what I'm sure was
meant to be nothing more than a passing remark, but it
had as much poignancy as anything I've ever heard. He
said;
"Only the warriors are out today."
I was too fatigued to respond, but I concurred. I also
took it as the highest compliment a bodybuilder could
receive.
That workout took place back in the winter of 1996 and
it was, in many ways, the benchmark from which I've
judged all my workouts since. I don't always succeed,
but if I had never pushed as hard as I did that day, I
would never know what I was capable of. It's amazing
how inspiration can come from the most unlikely of
scenarios.
I've since moved from the neighborhood where the
Bellrose Gym resides. I now live in New York City and
have access to some of the best facilities in the
world, short of Venice Beach. It isn't unusual to see a
top pro training right beside you on any given day. The
bodies that frequent these high tech establishments are
a blatant disclosure to the availability of anabolics.
It's all around. Freaky musculature is almost
commonplace.
Some newcomers know of my writings in the muscle
magazines and it's for that reason that I'm often
asked; "Where's the best, most serious gym in the
city?" Neophytes want to know where the big boys
congregate and where they can score some steroids.
Aspiring competitors hope that I can hook them up in a
place where they can learn a few secrets -- something
that will give them that extra edge.
By far, the most asked question is; "Where can I go
where it's really hardcore?"
And whenever I receive that ubiquitous query, all I can
think of is a cold snowy day some time ago, back in the
basement of an obscure gym filled with unknown
bodybuilders sweating and straining to get just one
more rep for no reason, other than to do it.
Where is it hardcore? Hardcore is indeed a place, but
don't try looking for it. It doesn't have a name and
it doesn't have an address. You won't find it in the
phone book, on the Internet, through a personal
recommendation or with the right connections. Hardcore
is in the heart. And as long as you have an intense
desire to train harder and heavier than you did the
last time out, everytime out...you're in the right
place.
FINDING HARDCORE BODYBUILDING
A Gym Story
Nelson Montana
It was still bitterly cold when the snow had finally
stopped falling. As I peered outside my bedroom window,
I could see that the roads were as good as closed.
Nothing short of a heavy duty SUV could work its way
through what looked like two or three feet of thickly
packed powder. It was worse than yesterday, which was
worse than the day before. Nevertheless, I wasn't going
to let it stop me. Today, I had to get to the gym --
anyway I could.
Just to make sure they were open for business, I gave a
call. One ring. Two rings. Then a voice:
"Hello, Bellrose Gym. Joe speaking. Can I help you?"
"Yes, are you open today?" I asked.
The somewhat agitated voice at the other end answered,
"Unfortunately, we are. Can you believe it? I mean,
who's going to come out on a day like this? If I didn't
live next door to this place, there's no way I'd be
here. The joint's deserted."
"But you are open?" I reiterated.
"Yeah, yeah. Regular hours today. Don't ask me why."
"Thanks. See ya." I hung up the phone and picked up my
gym bag. I was on my way.
I set my mind to the fact that walking through the snow
drifts would make a nice warm up, as if the expression
can be applied to such a situation. On any other day,
the three quarter of a mile distance to the gym was a
piece of cake. Today, it was going to be rough. But I
wanted to go. My body craved activity. I needed to lift
iron and no excuse was going to stop me.
The Bellrose Gym isn't what one would call a "hardcore"
club. It's of the commercial variety designed for
casual fitness seekers and overweight housewives. The
layout is made up of mostly stationary bikes,
treadmills and a smattering of exercise machines. Half
of the floor space is reserved for various types of
aerobics classes. But it was downstairs, in the
basement, where I was headed -- dark, dank and reserved
for anybody who really wanted to train. It had weights,
benches and more weights. Nothing fancy. Yet, it did
have a power cage and dumbells that went up to 100
pounds and it welcomed anyone who chose to forgo the
niceties of the main floor and enter into the "pain
zone." As grungy as it was, the basement wasn't a
bodybuilders' hang out in the traditional sense. There
was never any talk of competing, nor did anyone of any
prominence train there. I doubt if any of the members
were juicing or had ever so much as seen the stuff.
Still, I've never known a group of guys that worked
harder and more seriously. Some of the patrons had
amazing physiques -- thick, vascular and defined. But
even those who weren't genetically blessed, still
attacked the iron with ferocity.
When I finally finished my trek though the suburban
tundra, I stomped as much of the icy sleet off my boots
as I could and walked though the doors of the club. As
far as I could see, there wasn't a single person in the
place. A lone figure, who I assumed was "Joe" was
sitting at the front desk reading a newspaper, arms
folded, hunched forward. As I approached him, he
maintained his relaxed posture except that his eyes
glanced sideways in my direction.
"You're the one who called?" he asked without much
enthusiasm.
"Who else?"
Joe was indifferent to my attempt at humor through the
usage of stating the obvious. As I went to take my
membership card from my spongy soaked wallet, he looked
back down at the paper and grumbled, "Go on in."
It was eerie perusing the gym floor. The usually
boisterous aerobics room was closed. A notice on the
wall stated; "No classes today due to the inclement
weather." Where there was typically several people
waiting for a bike, a custodian was getting in some
clean-up time. The treadmills were vacant. I had free
reign to any machine I wanted. I walked downstairs.
I anticipated the stark absence of clanging plates and
the mournful groans that were ever present in the
basement whenever someone attempted to hoist a poundage
that refused to budge. Instead, I noticed something
surprising. There were about eight or nine people who
also made it out into the gym and down to the dungeon.
Maybe it wasn't so surprising after all.
I wasn't especially close with anyone there but I'd
seen them all before. They were the regulars -- the
guys who you noticed but didn't necessarily associate
with. One thing was certain though. They were serious
lifters.
Anyone who couldn't hang would be upstairs, not here.
As I got into my routine, it was hard not to
acknowledge the others who were also training. It
wasn't as if we could maintain anonymity through the
din and congestion of a "normal" training day. We were
it. I gave a knowing nod to one of the guys passing me
as he grabbed a set of heavy dumbells from the rack. As
I started my next set, a peculiar sensation came over
me. I felt as if I was suddenly being judged by my
peers. Under everyday circumstances, I'm oblivious to
what anyone thinks about my training or the poundage
that I use. Bodybuilding, for me, is a solitary
activity. It's my therapy. My meditation. But today, I
truly felt as if I was among a brethren. These men were
here for the same reason I was. We were all, at least
in one way, the same.
I racked the 45 pound dumbells and picked up the 60s.
The next set, I went even heavier. I wanted to make
this workout count. Halfway into the session, there was
an undeniable electricity in the air. Everyone was
pushing harder than normal. It was as if this select
group had become one mind. Bars bent under the pressure
of accumulating plates. Masses of metal defied gravity
through the sheer force of human sinew. At one point,
I noticed a trainee staring at a dauntingly heavy
barbell. It was almost like he was communicating with
it -- daring it to beat him as it had done so many
times before. Suddenly, he lunged down, grasped the
bar, and cleaned it to his shoulders. Just then, he let
out a bellow of agony. No one flinched. He's got it. We
all knew it. He then pushed the weight overhead,
shaking under the pressure. `Nice lift,' I thought to
myself. When he returned the bar to his shoulders, he
took a deep breath and shouted out loud, "That's ONE."
I was amused and impressed. He knocked out three more
reps. That's the way you do it.
The energy in the room was building and I had ceaseless
enthusiasm for the rest of the workout, lifting more
weight than ever before. My usual rep range of 8 to 10
was no longer the desired number. In fact, I stopped
counting. I just kept going. At the end of a grueling
set of seated presses, one of the members stood behind
me as I was reaching failure. He shouted; "Come on! You
got four more!" For some inexplicable reason, I
believed him. At least, I wanted to. So I strained and
stressed and with every ounce of strength I could
muster, and with just the slightest bit of help from my
comrade, I made that fourth rep. And then a fifth --
followed by partial reps at the top of the movement
until it felt as if my entire torso was on fire! When
every last bit of energy left my body, I slammed the
bells down to the floor and gasped for air. It felt
good.
It was then when my acquaintance made what I'm sure was
meant to be nothing more than a passing remark, but it
had as much poignancy as anything I've ever heard. He
said;
"Only the warriors are out today."
I was too fatigued to respond, but I concurred. I also
took it as the highest compliment a bodybuilder could
receive.
That workout took place back in the winter of 1996 and
it was, in many ways, the benchmark from which I've
judged all my workouts since. I don't always succeed,
but if I had never pushed as hard as I did that day, I
would never know what I was capable of. It's amazing
how inspiration can come from the most unlikely of
scenarios.
I've since moved from the neighborhood where the
Bellrose Gym resides. I now live in New York City and
have access to some of the best facilities in the
world, short of Venice Beach. It isn't unusual to see a
top pro training right beside you on any given day. The
bodies that frequent these high tech establishments are
a blatant disclosure to the availability of anabolics.
It's all around. Freaky musculature is almost
commonplace.
Some newcomers know of my writings in the muscle
magazines and it's for that reason that I'm often
asked; "Where's the best, most serious gym in the
city?" Neophytes want to know where the big boys
congregate and where they can score some steroids.
Aspiring competitors hope that I can hook them up in a
place where they can learn a few secrets -- something
that will give them that extra edge.
By far, the most asked question is; "Where can I go
where it's really hardcore?"
And whenever I receive that ubiquitous query, all I can
think of is a cold snowy day some time ago, back in the
basement of an obscure gym filled with unknown
bodybuilders sweating and straining to get just one
more rep for no reason, other than to do it.
Where is it hardcore? Hardcore is indeed a place, but
don't try looking for it. It doesn't have a name and
it doesn't have an address. You won't find it in the
phone book, on the Internet, through a personal
recommendation or with the right connections. Hardcore
is in the heart. And as long as you have an intense
desire to train harder and heavier than you did the
last time out, everytime out...you're in the right
place.
