No one person stands out at this health club — which is exactly the whole, wonderful idea.
The members like it that way; in fact, they uniformly rave about working out at the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago’s Health and Fitness Center. Blending into a crowd is a simple joy for every person with a disability.
“When I come in here, I’m not as quick to be on guard,” said Sandy Dukat. “Nobody questions me. I do have a level of comfort in the rest of the community, but three to four times a day somebody will stop me.”
Dukat, 26, was born with no femur, or main thigh bone, in her upper right leg. She has no leg from the knee to the ankle; a foot attached to the underformed upper leg was amputated at age 4. These days, she moves through life with a specially wrapped upper leg, metal lower leg and plastic-molded foot that fits snugly into her footwear — including her in-line skates.
“People cheer for me at the lakefront all the time, saying, `Way to go,’ ” said Dukat. “I wonder if they do the same for everybody else.”
The absence of such well-intended empathy, which often borders on pity, is what makes the Rehabilitation Institute’s fitness center such a paradise for its members. Here, nobody calls people with disabilities “courageous” or “brave” simply because they choose to exercise their bodies.
The center has been a pity-free zone for nearly two years in its new facility in a former Northwestern University dormitory at 710 N. Lake Shore Dr., just east of the institute’s main building. Officials developed the space after realizing that an out-patient program housed in the physical therapy unit had outgrown itself, as evidenced by a three-month waiting list for new participants.
There are precious few other similar centers in the country, making it difficult for director Jeff Jones to compare notes. For a while, Jones couldn’t locate the right manufacturer of weight-training equipment, finally finding what he wanted in the Pulse line that is made in Canada. It allows both able-bodied and wheelchair lifters to use the same machine by locking a lower bar in place or swinging it out of the way.
The health club is an unqualified success, with 1,300 members, or participants, as Jones and his staff prefer to call them. Rehabilitation Institute employees are allowed to join for a $10 monthly fee — “it further integrates the environment,” said Jones — but the overwhelming majority are people with disabilities who pay no fees, thanks to charitable contributions. The participants have all sorts of physical challenges, including spinal cord injury, cerebral palsy, stroke, multiple sclerosis, amputations, post-polio syndrome, head and neck injuries and spina bifida. None is currently hospitalized at the institute and everyone must have medical clearance from a physician.
On a recent late Monday afternoon, the center featured the usual health-club mixture of playful banter and serious sweat. Faces contorted as arms worked at bicep curls or lateral pulldowns. Two members who play on the club’s wheelchair softball team bounced a ball to each other in a game of catch.
One heavily used bank of machines consists of “grinders,” in which the arms and shoulders rotate an ergometer to build upper-body strength. Using this equipment, along with a nearby triceps weight machine, people can lift themselves in and out of a wheelchair more easily and build endurance as they roll around.
Each weight and cardiovascular machine offers five hand-grip attachments to accommodate the exerciser’s capacity to grasp a handle. “Activity mitts” are available for members who can’t grip at all but can still pull and push. The club’s treadmills have special plastic bumps on settings to assist blind members.
About 4:30 p.m., Schvaya McCray, 28, wheeled himself into the club’s main workout area. Slowly and purposefully, he moved from his wheelchair to a double-wide weight bench for a series of bench-press lifts.
One couldn’t help feeling sympathetic or at least sensing it would be best to look away while McCray got situated: His legs were trembling violently as he scooted up the bench to get into position. But that was a misplaced notion. McCray’s involuntary leg spasms — a side effect of spinal cord injuries he suffered when he was stabbed by a robber nearly six years ago — help tone the leg muscles.
As McCray grunted his way to bench-pressing 385 pounds, Sean Griggs was making his own circuit on the weight machines, which he uses to improve in his favorite sport. Griggs, 29, is a star pitcher and infielder on the RIC Cubs, a wheelchair softball team that plays a national schedule with sponsorship from the major league baseball club. His new athletic effort is a logical development after a gunshot wound ended his once-promising baseball career; he was shot on May 6, 1989, just weeks before participating in a minor league camp.
“To tell you the truth, I was very fortunate to be alive,” Griggs said before hitting the showers. “It sounds funny, but I have been cheerful since I woke up at the hospital. I started lifting up everyone around me. There’s no sense in being down; you have to get out into society.”
Griggs is a gym rat in the best sense of the word. In the first months after the shooting, he could barely squeeze a person’s finger. Now he figures his grip “could break every bone in someone’s hand.” He said he is glad to be working again, for Chicago’s Department of Revenue, after a several-year-long layoff from United Parcel Service. Most of all, he cherishes the opportunity to play on a team.
“Baseball is a game of individual performances,” he said. “But you have to get to know each other, anticipate a guy’s moves. As a pitcher, I love the inner game of outguessing the hitter.”
Other people at the center, like Jerry Cain, hit the gym to make everyday life easier. They work toward stability.
“My goal is to keep my physical condition as is and not get worse,” said Cain, a graphic designer with multiple sclerosis who has used a wheelchair for about nine years. “I exercise three times a week to keep my independence. If I fall down, I don’t want to have to call someone to come help me up.”
Spending his first day at the health club on that Monday afternoon was Rudy Garcia, who had been shot in the neck in late 1993. Weight workouts in his South Side home had proved valuable for his muscles, but he decided to come here for a sense of belonging.
“I joined because I think it will lift my spirits,” said Garcia.
He is probably right, if Macie Tellis is any example. She started working out at the center about a year ago after a doctor convinced her that exercise could reduce the debilitating pain of severe arthritis, complicated by asthma attacks. In late 1996, her legs would swell so much that she was “frightened to get on my legs.” These days, she is walking with a walker and savvy about her public transportation options.
Tellis attends aerobics class three to four times each week at the gym. The class is a 30-minute upper-body workout that is designed by professional aerobics instructors — and much more fun than the grinder machine.
“I like the music and social aspect,” said Tellis, 60, whose face visibly brightens when she talks about class. “I especially like to shoot (imaginary) hoops and dance to the rhumba.”
Jones and his staff have plenty of satisfied customers, but he isn’t resting comfortably on the center’s success, nor the victories of more than 25 athletes who represent the RIC in international and national competitions. For one thing, he would like members to have regular access to a pool and gymnasium, rather than having to rely on Park District facilities.
There are larger issues too.
“Our ultimate goal is for no one to rely on our center,” said Jones. “It would be great if local gyms and health clubs were all wheelchair-accessible. Very few are accessible right now. Fitness can bring everyone together. Certainly, there is no one here who takes health for granted.”
