When Exercise Is A Drag
Sun Herald
Sunday January 19, 1997
THE gym instructor is twirling the black tassels on his lace corset. They swing in rhythm with the beat. Thirty women in sweaty Lycra are trying to keep up with Truly. But how can you match him? Not only is he ripple fit, he's wearing a blond wig and glitter shades and when he slinks up to the mirror, he dips, in a calf-shuddering bend which he holds for 10 seconds.
"This is my noo routine," he coos through cherry lips. "It's called Fake."
In true New York gymnasium speak of the late 90s, the slogan on the wall says "no judgements". But I can't help thinking Truly's outfit is particularly fetching as he jetes sideways. And of how the shiny blue of Truly's tights undulate as he insinuates his muscled thighs up and back, up and back.
He crosses his black gloved hands and turns, a froth of yellow scarf twirling in his wake. Panting, the class tries to ape him. I, too, spin, like a baby hippo in a whirlpool. I try to remember where I am. Crunch gym, downtown Manhattan. Nine o'clock on a freezing winter's night.
And the message on the wall: "We at Crunch warmly welcome people from all walks of life, regardless of shape, size, sex or ability. People don't have to be flawless to feel at home at Crunch. We don't care if our members are 18 or 80, fat or thin, short or tall, muscular or mushy, blond or bald ... Crunch is not competitive, it is non-judgmental, it is non-elitist, it does not represent a type of person. Crunch is a gym."
I repeat this like a mantra as Truly leads us, breathless, on through his workout. He shimmies back, bumping in time to a burlesque number. It's Eartha Kitt's My Discarded Men and Truly is raising a gloved middle finger at the mirror. It's part of the routine, but I can't help thinking it's an appropriate salute to all the gyms and all the aerobics classes that make the imperfect feel inadequate.
The halls of narcissism. The places where superwomen and men gaze down at their fatter, lesser brothers and sisters. Where cellulite is shame. And exercise is serious.
The gyms of New York City have changed and may they lead the way. All over Manhattan, gymnasiums are vying for customers with a variety of features but one message: "no attitude".
January is the hottest month for joining, post the Christmas flab-out.
Some gyms are luring in wimps-like-us with techno-sophisticated equipment which takes the part of a personal trainer, huge MTV video screens and wacky decor. But Crunch has the edge. In its new fitness book, Crunch features a guy in a tutu, a girl lifting pies. A 95-year-old woman doing double-knee hugs on the floor.
It says cross training is "15 minutes of rigorous cookie eating, 30 minutes watching TV and a 20-minute cool down, napping".
Instead of spartan, Crunch looks like a hip nightclub, with deep yellow walls and slick black floors. It offers bewildering things: spinning classes, a hypoxic room and co-ed wrestling. And it offers Truly.
Truly is the only drag queen to lead an aerobics class, which he does with skill and a mesmerising routine which can make a lumbering potato forget she's exercising. But Anthony Truly, a Tennessee boy whose mother doesn't quite approve of his chosen path, is not all mascara and lame. He drinks, smokes and chews tobacco.
"Hey, I'm from Tennessee. I wear party wigs, like Liberace, like Priscilla," he says. "I have several routines like Home Perm Funk, Psychedelic Funk. Single Black She-Male and Superficial Funk.
"I like to have a sense of theatre and comedy. But it's my job to motivate people to start coming to classes and then motivate people to stay and reap the benefits.
"I do clubs. I'm a personality. I've had a show on TV. But I'm a professional. And we girls need something for ourselves. It's our time to exercise at the best fat-burning level for us."
Truly is sort of kidding. For the cool-down part of the class he peels off his gloves and frills and becomes a muscled man.
No men have braved his class, instead gazing through the glass walls at Truly's antics. Perhaps they are fascinated by the crowd Truly pulls for a class which is definitely exercise but hardly serious.
A New York securities trader called Douglas Levine started Crunch with the idea that exercise is necessary for those for want to stay in shape. But it's boring.
Crunch has aerobics classes to a live gospel choir, hip-hop indoor roller blading and dreadlocked instructors who lead women, some in sarongs, in a Sengalese dance. In one of Crunch's five New York outlets, stationary bikers pedal under a disco ball and strobe lights.
Truly hopes he helped evolve the Cruncho credo. At any rate, as he mosies round the heaving women who lie stretching out on his class mats, he talks to each one personally.
"What is your New Year's resolution ... mine is to find a foundation closer to my skin tone."
We all giggle. I gaze at the wall. It says: "At the heart of Crunch is ... an environment where everyone feels accepted - a truly unique place".
© 1997 Sun Herald