In early 2006 I was about to turn 30 and was “working” full time as a DJ and producer. Late nights, lots of free open bar tabs and too much travel. The lifestyle was beating me down. I was looking for paths of physical and mental improvement. I knew I needed to become a better human.
I started reading again, and I hired a trainer at the small independent bodybuilding gym on the Upper Eastside of Miami. Idol’s Gym. It was a mix of juiced up semi-pro bodybuilders, buff gay dudes in grey sweatpants, pre-influencer Miami-fit mamas and randoms from the neighborhood. I fell into the randoms department.
The first session I trained I excused myself 5 minutes in and ran to the toilet. I had explosive diarrhea for 20 minutes. Sorry, TMI – I know, but it’s reality. That was the end of our half hour session. The second session I made it all the way through the half hour, but went home with a raging headache. My body was rebelling.
Thankfully, I had written a check for $1500 (close to $2500 in today’s money) and was not going to quit and lose the cash. It was honestly more than I could afford, but I had committed to a bunch of sessions and I had to at least keep trying. By the 5th session I was hooked. By the 40th session, the trainer cut me loose.
“I’ve never trained anyone that works as hard as you do, I need to take on a new client, you’re on your own now. You can do it,” he said with the same calm confidence he’d used when he showed me the book he’d published with his boyfriend that was workouts and meal plans mixed with black and white photos of them working out in speedos.
So…
off I went.
I’m not sure exactly when or how, but I had somehow run into Ross Enamait’s books and had become hooked on his low equipment, high intensity workouts. Double-unders, ab wheel roll outs, weighed strict pull ups, heavy dumbbell snatches, burpees and sprints. Mile repeats, swimming intervals, bike sprints.
I loved it.
One day I was working myself into the ground in a weight vest with stair runs, burpees and abs into oblivion.
The owner came up to me. Barbara Streisand was on the stereo. I had DJ’d Purdy Lounge in South Beach in a 3M mask (cigarette smoking was still allowed) until 4:30am, it was now 2pm and no one else was in the usually busy gym.
“What in the hell are you training for?” The ex-bodybuilder turned burnt out gym owner asked.
“LIFE MAN!” I shouted between weight vest constricted breaths as I went up and down the 13 wooden stairs it took to get to the ‘functional training’ mezzanine.
Punching bags, open floor space, a squat rack with a pull up bar, some random dumbbells. A bench.
The only real issue with the gym was the run route took you through the courtyard of a ficus covered courtyard occupied by a very hip, very Miami restaurant. Early enough, you can run before they open. Too late – well, that’s one of the reasons we eventually moved on.
Anyway, life; man – that’s what I’m training for. Life. More of it. Lived Better.
I knew I wanted out of the late nights and traveling of a life in music. I’d returned home from a 6 week stint in Europe and my 2 year old daughter was not pleased. It broke my heart and I felt the wave come over me. I needed change; and I was pretty sure I knew where that change was going to happen.
This road was leading to one place…my own space, my own gym, my own thing.
