Gymnsia

We don't all work out to be beautiful. One man's trip through the city's physical subcultures.

by Michael Joseph Gross

Adam Berke has an idea. It's called "Dionysia," and it's the name for the culture he's creating at his lower Boylston Street gym. "Dionysia is derived from the Greek god Dionysus," he explains. "He was the god of wine. . . . [Dionysia] means a state of euphoria, almost like a party atmosphere. So what we try to provide here on a nightly basis is a fitness Dionysia. There's something going on here that's more than simply lifting weights."

In fact, a lot of things are going on at Adam Berke's gym. Its grand opening in September featured a runway show of fitnesswear by Versace Intensive, with food catered by Todd English and a guest list that included probably every resident of Boston who's ever paid full price for a seat on the Concorde. Print ads called it "the hottest party in town." Last week, the gym threw the first of several planned dance parties; BU undergraduates writhed and shimmied in the gym's open spaces while a few bewildered members went about their business on the weight machines. And every night, the juice bar serves glasses of red wine (limit two) to patrons who've got time to kill before ambling over to Lansdowne Street.

How long can Adam's party last? Perhaps the politest way to answer that question is to note that in Boston, everything closes at 2 a.m.

Ecstasy rarely makes an appearance on the typical Bostonian's to-do list. We don't work out in order to let go; we work out in ways that help us fit in. The meaning of exercise is shaped by the values of the particular part of the community one inhabits; we work out in the same manner that we conduct the rest of our daily business. We sculpt our torsos in ways that reflect the natural tendencies of our town.

I wanted to figure out the connections between the character of our polis and the shape of our pecs. And in Boston's gym culture, I found microcosms of several of the city's social spheres. The yuppie gym that sates bourgeois cravings for security and convenience; the gay gym that replicates the gossipy village of the South End; and the muscle gyms, where Boston's fiercely democratic heritage finds surprisingly full expression. (Where, exactly, Adam Berke lies on this landscape is a question I'll come back to later.)

On my search, I posed as a prospective member in order to tour 16 Boston-area gyms. I returned to most of them during "prime time" (5 to 8 p.m. on weekdays) to mingle with the natives and learn their customs firsthand.

On to part 2

Michael Joseph Gross is a freelance writer living in Boston. He can be reached at MJG25@aol.com.