On August 1st, I joined Stern’s Gym. It would be the only gym I would work out in while in San Diego.
I hadn’t moved to San Diego in order to start a sports program but one could hardly be in San Diego without one. In all events, starting a fitness routine was one of my priorities — along with choosing a grocer and getting a car.
Martial arts was always on my mind. Unfortunately there was no Kuk Sool dojo in San Diego and most of the places seemed to be roaring tiger-fist schools. The one karate place I checked out in Mission Beach left me unimpressed.
There were no gyms in the Hillcrest/Bankers Hill area and the gyms along the I-8 corridor were all of the carpet, ficus and disco variety. I had absolutely had it with gay gyms in San Francisco and if these gyms weren’t exactly mono-sexual they were la-la and shi shi enough. So I checked out a beach bum gym in Mission Beach a block down from the unimpressionable karate place.
On a complimentary pass I tried out the equipment. It was more along the lines of what I was looking for, but too small, too warm and, ultimately too far away. While there I noticed this 70 year old stick man whom a young muscular trainer was coaching. The old man with sparse and wispy white hair could barely managed a weightless bar or 2.5 lb dumb bells but he was trying and the trainer was silently encouraging.
“We’ll all get there,” I thought with a mild shudder.
Back at Kalmia, I wondered what to do. Maybe I would have to join a ficus gym after all. I forget who mentioned it, whether it was Jim or Jim Galas but someone said that there was an “old time” gym out in North Park called “Sterns” It had been there forever.
Martial arts was always on my mind. Unfortunately there was no Kuk Sool dojo in San Diego and most of the places seemed to be roaring tiger-fist schools. The one karate place I checked out in Mission Beach left me unimpressed.
There were no gyms in the Hillcrest/Bankers Hill area and the gyms along the I-8 corridor were all of the carpet, ficus and disco variety. I had absolutely had it with gay gyms in San Francisco and if these gyms weren’t exactly mono-sexual they were la-la and shi shi enough. So I checked out a beach bum gym in Mission Beach a block down from the unimpressionable karate place.
On a complimentary pass I tried out the equipment. It was more along the lines of what I was looking for, but too small, too warm and, ultimately too far away. While there I noticed this 70 year old stick man whom a young muscular trainer was coaching. The old man with sparse and wispy white hair could barely managed a weightless bar or 2.5 lb dumb bells but he was trying and the trainer was silently encouraging.
“We’ll all get there,” I thought with a mild shudder.
Back at Kalmia, I wondered what to do. Maybe I would have to join a ficus gym after all. I forget who mentioned it, whether it was Jim or Jim Galas but someone said that there was an “old time” gym out in North Park called “Sterns” It had been there forever.
So, early one afternoon, after looking it up in the phone book, I went to check it out. Ficus it was not.
I almost missed it because it was not on the ground floor but on top of a chinese laundry at the end of a long flight or rickety wood stairs lined with fading black and white photographs of 40’s and 50’s body builders in Steve Reeves mode with high rise tight fitting trunks.
The space was not large and it was jammed with an eclectic assortment of contraptions dating from the 40’s to the early 60’s and all very proto-Nautilus. It even had a vibrating belt (“jiggle”) machine but the motor had burned out long time passing.
The floor was a combination of worn-rug, cracked linoleum (maroon) and wood slats. There were some blow fans in the street-side windows for air. The lockers in the back were wood painted white and had probably been picked up from some 1920’s spa. No one used them or the showers anyway.
There was no music.
Once or twice one or another Mr. Universe came to work out, otherwise the clientele (the word seems too genteel) was in line with the decor and consisted mostly of hammer jockeys who came to work out after work in their work boots, soiled jeans and already sweaty tees or cut-off sweat shirts. It may have done as a gay fantasy but it was definitely not gay.
I worked out at Stern's with passable consistency until one hot August day in 1989 hearing “push dat pussy weight!” one time too many, I threw down my dumb-bells and walked out.
Once or twice one or another Mr. Universe came to work out, otherwise the clientele (the word seems too genteel) was in line with the decor and consisted mostly of hammer jockeys who came to work out after work in their work boots, soiled jeans and already sweaty tees or cut-off sweat shirts. It may have done as a gay fantasy but it was definitely not gay.
I worked out at Stern's with passable consistency until one hot August day in 1989 hearing “push dat pussy weight!” one time too many, I threw down my dumb-bells and walked out.
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