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 TRUE GRIT Sweating through one week of a "military style" workout
It was dark at 4:15 Monday morning, when the alarm went off, and still dark at 4:24 after the snooze period. My Springer Spaniel, who follows me into the bathroom every morning, did not lift an eyelid on this morning. It was dark at 4:45, when I pulled into the parking lot at the north end of Diversey Harbor, introduced myself to the drill instructor there, and made small talk with the other "Bulldogs," as they call themselves. It was dark at 5, when I and a couple dozen other clients of Bulldog Bootcamp Company began our warm-up jog along the perimeter of the harbor, shouting out a cadence after our drill instructor: "One, two, three and a quarter ... Gee, I wish I had a glass of water." And it stayed dark for the whole next hour as we did our calisthenics in the dewy grass. It was only beginning to get light in my apartment at 6:45, when I drifted off to sleep in my armchair in front of "Good Morning America," feeling all the satisfaction and serenity of a good day's work behind me. I'm surprised it didn't occur to me to have a cocktail. To be honest, it did. Monday would be only the first day of a week of "military-style workouts," as Bulldog Bootcamp Company calls them. This earthy exercise fad, which is sweeping the city and the rest of the urban nation, works on the well-worn premise that, in order to maintain discipline and motivation over an even moderately long haul, most people need social pressure, structure and strong leadership. The boot camp concept is also fueled by the new reality that cities contain thousands of young people whose new-economy jobs allow them to afford the exorbitant sums required to maintain motivational militias like Bulldog, which has run 500 people through its program since its inception in January, 1999, and currently has about 200 on the rolls. Each client pays $295 for the first four-week course, and then $160 for every month after that (with discounts for purchasing more than one month at a time). In addition to being the leading operation in town, Bulldog also claims to be the cheapest. The Bulldog people offered me a month for free if I'd write a story on the experience. I said I'd do a week, but I reserved the right to continue for the rest of the month if I thought my research required it. After Monday's workout, I knew a week would suffice. Monday night, just as I was drifting off to sleep, the phone rang. "God damn it," I bellowed, "Who would be calling here at this hour?" My wife answered, "Honey, it's 9 o'clock." Tuesday "C-130 rolling down the strip, As we wind our way around to a dark, leafy area northwest of the harbor for exercise, I'm hoping we don't do lots of push-ups. Yesterday's sets made it painful to open the door on the stack dryer this morning. (I was in there to fish out my gray "Bulldog" T-shirt. I must wash this shirt every day, as Bulldogs are chided by drill instructors and one another for wearing anything other than the standard issue.) My heart sinks as we approach a set of pull-up bars. For crissakes, who installed a set of pull-up bars next to Diversey Harbor? The drill instructor indicates that our whole hour will be split between calisthenics and chin-ups -- frying pan and fire. Frying pan: More push-ups, both traditional and "inverted," which involve putting the hands close together and, theoretically, touching your ribs with your elbows on the way down and up. (You try it.) Another exercise is called "dirty dogs" -- so named, apparently, because it involves the participant, on all fours, lifting one leg in the air at a time. And there's a Hugh-Hefner-inspired number called "dive bombers," which I can only explain as a cross between a push-up and a bionic humping motion. Fire: Pull-ups and chin-ups, two exercises I have avoided since junior high. The instructions are to pull yourself up, "until you can't do them any more." I manage only one pull-up unaided, and do the rest -- dozens more -- with a partner half-hoisting me up. After each set, I gasp "That's it," and drop off the bars quivering, thereby admitting that I'm too tired to be lifted up even one more time. Occasionally, I sneak a look at my watch. Each time, only five minutes have passed. An hour doesn't sound like a long time to work out, but when you never once stop moving -- we were made to do ten push-ups for not jogging fast enough from the frying pan to the fire -- the time crawls, and exhaustion mounts. Also, these calisthenics are pure drudgery. I've always felt sorry for women and men who don't play competitive sports. I have always stayed in shape -- though obviously not complete shape -- by competing in sports that I love: tennis, golf, basketball. In the heat of competition, you forget you're working out, and the time passes swiftly. Without that joy, the only motivation strong enough to move people to work out every day is fear -- of rejection, of ridicule, of disappointing others. (A big part of this program: If you don't show up for two straight days, your drill instructor calls and asks where you are.) At the end of the workout, after all the platoons are gathered again near the parking lot, there's a social activity, obviously designed to bond the group together with hoops of steel. We're instructed to introduce ourselves to two strangers, and tell about our favorite games as a kid. I say, Monopoly. Melissa says, Candyland. Jessica says, Sorry. Or was it Kathy? Within five seconds, I've forgotten all the information, including my own favorite game. Reaching out the car window to collect my Sausage McMuffin with Egg requires stamina, commitment and intense concentration. And now, hours after the workout, I can hardly raise my hands to my keyboard to type. They're partially paralyzed, as if I have a mild case of polio, or Lou Gehrig's disease. Tuesdays with Murray. Wednesday An instructor apologizes for this, saying a normal client wouldn't have been promoted so quickly, but they wanted to accelerate the experience for me. I tell him that perhaps the normal client doesn't have pectoral muscles so meager that he can eat breakfast cereal out of his concave chest. My attitude turns to pathetic gratitude when it becomes clear that there will be no push-ups, pull-ups or any similar tortures today. Today is a running day, and I'm up for running; freakishly enough, my legs are almost as strong as my arms are weak. I enthusiastically run through the drill: down the canal, in between and around all the other "Bulldogs," as they are called, up and down the stairs around Grant's statue and, eventually, back to our parking lot on the north end of the harbor. It's a tough workout complete with a steady drizzle. The only thing to complain about is the cadences. They're so dreary to listen to and chant every morning. I know why we do them: Same reason we wear the Bulldog shirts -- to advertise the company to everyone within earshot. I can't bring myself to chant above a mumble in reply. One people-pleaser in my group, running right next to me, is shouting them in a deep voice, louder than the drill instructor's. I want to bump him into the harbor. "I can run to Kansas City like this, The truth is, there's something about these boot-campers that gets on my nerves: They're almost uniformly yuppie; they're fit, friendly, cheerful, positive and banal. Bulldog 1: "I think I actually saw Amy break a sweat! Ha ha." In fact, the only negative remark I've heard all week was the woman who pulled one of the drill instructors aside after a workout and told him she didn't like one of the exercises -- not because it was too hard, mind you, but because it wasn't really hard enough. He replied, "I should probably go with the company line here, but you know what? I agree with you." Thursday Today it's the usual calisthenics, as well as jogging, skipping and side-stepping around a circle of cones in the grass. The male instructor is a little less serious than the rest. He's chatting up the women, who make up 60 percent of the Bulldog participants. Happily, he doesn't notice the almost negligible range of motion on my push-ups. Neither does he appear to notice that the dim light blue over the Lake silhouettes a layer of clouds, making it look as if there's a mountain range to the east. I think about what Chicago would be like if there was a mountain range to the east.... My mind is beginning to wander. In case you haven't already guessed, Bulldog's operation is a far cry from basic training. It's closer to personal training. Indeed, that's where Bulldog founder and CEO Greg Major came from. Bored with the self-indulgence of his clients -- he says they often wanted to use the time to talk with him about their personal problems -- and tired of the insularity of the gym, he wanted to take the workouts outside. One idea led to another, and after a bit of serendipity, Major and his wife Michelle launched Bulldog Bootcamp Co., to compete with Elite Force Fitness and The Sergeants Program. The latter outfit has been operating in Washington, D.C., for some years. "Not to brag," Major says, "but so far we have crushed our competitors." No doubt the Majors' keen understanding of their market is one key to this. A gay couple who has befriended me -- gay men seem to be the other defining Bulldog demographic, for it was a gay man who first alerted me to this phenomenon -- tell me that lots of these people are Lincoln Park neighbors, co-workers and friends who originally talked one another into participating. Sometimes these people get together after work informally, and Bulldog does its part to keep the group cohesive, organizing activities like camping trips and bowling and pizza nights. Today's getting-to-know-you game is introduce yourself to two strangers and reveal the first movie you saw in a theater. My answer is, "Grease." I'm trying hard to listen to Corey's answer when I realize the correct answer is really "The Shaggy D.A." I saw "Grease" much later. Friday Michelle Major attends this session, perhaps because the photographer is here. We chat, and she tells me she really wishes I could do the whole month. Both she and her husband Greg have tried to impress on me that it's the long-term experience with this operation that's really interesting, not the short-term. I have tried to make them understand that I believe them, but that getting up at 4:15 every morning for a month is not something reporters ever do; if such a regimen were required for either Bob Woodward or Carl Bernstein to break the Watergate story, Nixon would still be in office today. I also tell her I'd been under the mistaken impression that this was a program for out-of-shape people to get in shape, and that, instead, it appears to be for in-shape-people to get in better shape. She agrees with this statement, though her husband later offers up an example of one client who "couldn't run a block," but eventually ran a marathon as a result of doing the Bulldog Bootcamp. But as for most truly overweight people who show up for the boot camp, "We usually suggest they start with personal training," Michelle says. We're on the beach, doing calisthenics, which are much harder in the sand, and wind sprints and suicide runs, which are akin to swimming in oatmeal. My thighs are burning, my buns are burning. The drill instructor is shouting things like, "Don't cheat your body!" He's barking, "In through the nose, out through the mouth." This is precisely the path a steady stream of sand is taking on its way through my head. At the end of this workout -- we run all the way back from the beach, up the length of the harbor to the north end, grateful to be on concrete and not sand -- we all have to go around the circle and tell the best and worst parts of our week. I get a decent laugh by saying the best part of my week was mastering a lifestyle that involved a workout, a meal and a nap, all before 8am. It is with barely perceptible regret that I climb into my car for the last time and drive away from these Bulldogs, never to see them again. Had I done the boot camp for a month, how strong would the attachment to my fellow Bulldogs have been? How strong would that bond have been after two months? Six months? A year? The answer to that question will ultimately determine if the Bulldog Bootcamp Co. becomes an institution in Chicago, or just another cheap jackpot in the constant search for novel ways for well-to-do women and men to bring themselves to do the boring, grinding work of keeping in shape. As for me, I'll stick with basketball and golf and let my cereal-bowl pecs rot. Already, it's getting hard to remember how I even made it through this one week of workouts in the dark. If you asked me, I'd have to say, "With a lot of motivation, work and sweat and a lot of dedication. Motivation! Dedication!" Woof! Woof!
Also by David Murray Steam Heat
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