When I was a youngster of 70+, I hopped into my red F10 and drove from South Carolina to Santa Monica, CA to take film acting lessons. I asked my teacher about where the movie stars worked out, and he recommended Gold’s Gym in Venice. I was a Gold’s Gym member in South Carolina and was delighted to learn that Venice would honor my SC membership.
Are you alarmed to discover that you are listening to the report of a seventy-year-old wannabe actor? Perhaps you are appalled that he openly would admit to having entertained this fantasy. Guilty as charged.
I am sure it was Mickey Rourke who pointed out the men’s changing room to me. A look-alike? Close enough. In the middle of my struggle against the abdominal crunch machine, who should walk by but Ray Liotta of Goodfellas fame. I saw a dozen celebrities during my two-week visits to Gold’s in LaLa Land. My teacher was right. But I want to tell you about the most authentic star I observed at that gym.
Seated at the shoulder press machine, I saw the man enter the area. Frail and stooped, he leaned into his walker. His tattered sneakers scraping softly on the gym floor, slowly he shuffled toward the chest press machine that faced my row. He eventually arrived, abandoned the walker, surrendered to his seat at the machine, and began slowly and rhythmically to push the levers forward. Push, recover. Push, recover. Push, recover.
I was sure that man was 85 if he was a day. I am equally sure that he was determined even at this advanced age to take everything he could squeeze out of life. He would not give in to age, physical issues, or ennui. No silver screen idol energized and inspired me in Venice. That man did. I credit him, twenty years later, for my own devotion to keep on keeping on.
I think of him every time I challenge the chest press machine at Health Directions, my current gym in West Columbia, SC. I doubt that he considered himself a role model, but I am so grateful to him. He is my role model.
Soon I will celebrate my birthday. If anyone asks, I will gladly report that 91 is the new 90.
Thank you, my anonymous, iron-pumping, octogenarian hero.
