Exercise and I have
always made for uneasy bedfellows.
Being very small, my schooldays were marred
by always being one of the last two girls standing when teams were being picked
for hockey or netball. No matter how well I did during any game – and I really
did try so hard – it never changed the pecking order next time it came to
choosing teams and, again, being small, I was never picked by the games teacher
Mrs Davies to be team captain and pick/punish my own choices.
Mrs Davies didn’t
help in other ways, either. During one hockey game, I scored all three goals
for my victorious team and was pulled aside afterwards and admonished: “It
doesn’t pay to be too competitive in life.” As someone who was doubtless
competing with other babies on the maternity ward to escape the womb first,
this was never going to be advice I would come to heed.
During my youth, I was a
competition ballroom dancer and, believe me, it’s tough exercise. At university
I played badminton and squash and, in later life, I have walked thousands of
miles in the cities I have lived in, and also joined local gyms, where I work
out and swim.
The group classes in these gyms
have never gone well. I can’t bear the people breaking wind in front of me in
yoga when they are in Downward Facing Dog (what do these people eat?
Frogspawn?), and, in Boxercise, I was put off during my first and only session
when the punch-bags swung round on an overhead conveyor and one hit me in the
face.
But I need exercise. I no longer
feel that I have to compete in order to reach Olympic standard, but I like to
compete against myself, pushing myself to the limit that is appropriate for my
age.
To this end, I’ve been
auditioning gyms in New York – Manhattan, to be precise. In LA, I was a member
of Crunch in West Hollywood, where I was the Only Straight in the Gym, if not
the village. The ridiculous high level of dreadful music there made workouts
and sessions with my personal trainer unbearable, but as I had sessions left
over when I moved, I transferred them to a NY Crunch.
I have discovered during the
boxing part of these sessions that I pack a mean punch (non-contact with
humans) and, as I love boxing (watching, too), am looking to continue this part
of my cardio workout. But those training sessions end next week and, as there
is no pool at Crunch, I need to move, and have narrowed my options down to
three.
The New York Sports Club in the
Crowne Plaza in Times Square is the closest to where I live, but I quickly
discounted it on the grounds of its being . . . well, how do I put this
politely . . . shite. A small overcrowded gym below ground level, a tiny,
scruffy pool that also takes reservations from hotel guests (meaning that you
have to switch lanes all the time), and I have butter dishes bigger than the
changing room.
The Mercedes Club, a slightly
longer walk away, has a 25 yard pool that is largely empty but, like the West
Hollywood Crunch, has incessant bang, bang, bang music in the gym that, even
when you have ear-phones on, penetrates your skull. My shower panel was hanging
from the wall, a woman was singing nursery rhymes to a baby in the shower next
to mine, sellotape was hanging from the labels marked “shampoo” etc., there
were no bags in which to place wet swimming costumes, and loud women were
making social arrangements with each other and on their cell-phones.
Worse, the
entire place has been constructed of those tiny one inch tiles that are grossly
unhygienic in their grouting’s ability to capture every speck of dirt and toe
of athlete’s foot. The floors were grubby, there was no one mopping up, and the
highlight of the whole experience was the Mercedes House market downstairs,
where I comforted myself by spending way more than a month’s membership would have
cost me.
And so, to Chelsea Piers. It’s a
1.3 mile walk away from Hell’s Kitchen where I live (I used to walk 1.5 miles
each way to one health club in LA), but if I can’t be bothered, there are buses
that can drop me at the door.
It’s hard to know where to start
with this place. It’s wonderful. Glorious. Fantastic. The stunning location on
the Hudson is just the start of it. With views of the Freedom Tower, the Statue
of Liberty and the Brooklyn Bridge, the feeling is one of being in a top
resort. There is a large deck with sun-beds where, in the summer, you can sit
at the water’s edge and dream of faraway climes. Muscle Beach in the heart of New York City.
The facilities are like no other.
There are two running tracks, a sand volleyball court, a rock climbing wall,
machines whose buttons and knobs are on a par with the excitement of
Thunderbird 2 . . . I could go on.
And will. The pool is a 6 lane,
25 yard, mini-Olympic pool, and on my guest day I managed 40 lengths. From the
Jacuzzi in the same area, I watched the sun go down over the Hudson – one of
the most beautiful sunsets in the world that I also happen to see from my
apartment window.
So, Chelsea Piers it is and, as a
member of the private members’ club Soho House, I get a substantial discount
that also makes CP the best value for money. There is also a skating rink next
door, so expect to see me writing my next blog from traction. If I’m in a coma,
you’ll know I took the boxing way too seriously.
A major plus is that I can also
walk 10 of the 25 blocks along the High Line, the disused railway track that is
now an elevated walkway, complete with greenery.
People say that New York is a
tough place and, I imagine that if you spend your life travelling to and from
work, dealing with traffic, subways and crowds, it is. For me, I have the
solace of home and now the comfort of Chelsea Piers.
You see, Mrs Davies? It wasn’t
being content to sit on the subs’ bench that got me this far.
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