I can detect sweat, old sneakers, and the oily tang of metal weights, of gym bags that are never emptied or aired, of mildew and something else, something that I came to understand was the adrenaline scent of fear. Fear postponed, fear arriving, fear diverted. The noise level reaches a new crescendo until the sound of a prolonged flat alarm. The signal of a thirty-second break. Without the noise of physical exertion, the instruction, the yelling, the exhorting, a chorus of voices in English and Spanish suddenly bursts forth like a previously overpowered section in an orchestra.
Trainers mop foreheads, dispense water, reprimands, and advice until the flat buzzer sounds again.
This is the start of a new round. It is a routine as predictable and time-driven as any factory work floor. The heavy bags are hung in a large square near the main office. The concrete floor is painted in spots and, in others, covered with shabby remnants of low-pile carpeting. There is no elevator, no handicapped access, no climate control, no classes, and no locker-room attendants.