The 5 a.m. crowd at Anytime Fitness looks significantly different than the gym’s daytime patrons.
People rarely wait on exercise equipment. They tend to avoid machines directly adjacent to those currently in use. In fact, we hardly acknowledge each other’s presence at all, short of the occasional, silent nod.
I am one of those people. At least five days a week, I race daylight and hit the gym, baring uncooperative circumstances of course – like snow days or forgetting that I’ve parked my car clear across campus.
The standoffish clientele doesn’t bother me. Call me crazy, but I’d rather not have to make small talk about the weather before the sun even rises.
Only a few days after beginning my 5 a.m. regime, I could recognize the other early risers, I knew who was new and who was a regular. And I could tell the other regulars recognized me.
There’s an almost tangible respect, an elitism shared between regular attendees. Outsiders have to prove their dedication to earn the morning head bob.
But still, nobody talks. And that almost worried me Monday morning.
Like any other Monday, I had rolled out of bed and dragged myself to the gym. I had finished my run on the treadmill – one of my better runs, actually – and proceeded to the weight machines, when I realized something wasn’t quite right.
My heart rate hadn’t slowed like it should have; I’d broken into a cold sweat and begun to shake. As I closed my eyes, I felt vertigo start to kick in.
This was not normal exercise fatigue, I finally admitted to myself. But neither was it an altogether new experience.
Prone by heredity to hypoglycemia, I usually monitor pretty carefully what I eat. And generally, I can predict and prepare for, if not avoid, my system’s sugar slumps.
However, every now and then, I awake to find the situation already upon me. The trick is clearing my groggy head and actually noticing quickly enough to avoid fainting.
Cradling my head in my hands, I fought back the familiar sense of panic and tried to rationally assess how capable I was of driving back home for some food and a pre-class nap.
Looking around, I realized I was surrounded by strangers, and none of my Abilene area “emergency contacts” would be awake for a while.
But it’s OK, I remembered. This is Texas. This is Abilene. And this is my 5 a.m. workout club.
I don’t know their names, but I do believe that in a gym emergency, I’d have caretakers.
Eventually, I stood up, made my exit, and drove myself home to cook breakfast. But my impromptu lesson on community lingered.
At ACU, community can seem ready-made. No matter how academically rigorous, in some ways, college forever seems like a yearlong summer camp for overgrown kids. We are surrounded by people just like ourselves, eager to build relationships and make friends and sharing many of the same challenges.
But community also comes from less obvious sources: our pew neighbors at church, rock climbing companions, a familiar Walmart greeter, or a 5 a.m. gym crowd.
It may not be as overt as the bonds we share with our closest friends, but, especially in crisis, unconventional community can be just as critical.
