Tri Training in Russia

From The Risks of Sunbathing Topless and Other Funny Stories from the Road

Accompanying my husband on a four-month stint in St. Petersburg, Russia was an enticing prospect. It was 2003, the city's tercentenary, and a big, blow-out birthday bash was taking place all year long. The exquisite baroque buildings were receiving fresh coats of paint and special events were scheduled throughout the year. I anticipated exploring the endless art collection in the Hermitage, watching nimble ballerinas dance in Swan Lake, and finally finishing War and Peace.

We had spent enough time in Russia in years past so I was familiar with the country's climate and cuisine issues. But this time, living in Russia would present additional challenges. I vowed the trip would not disrupt my goals for the year -- one of which was to test my stamina, raise money for a good cause and bond with my fellow woman-beings in an all-female sprint triathlon back home in Boston.

That is how I found myself getting ready to train for a triathlon amidst the imperial grandeur, socialist grit and nouveau glitz of Russia’s second capital. I knew it wouldn't be easy. Physical fitness is not exactly a priority in Russia, where beer is considered a breakfast drink and a pint of sour cream sits atop every entrée. Exercise is reserved for Olympic athletes, sportsmen and soldiers. Not women. Somebody running on the street is invariably trying to catch a bus.

Just when I needed to immerse myself in Swim! Bike! Run! I found myself in the workout underworld, the antithesis to Wellville. But I was determined. The triathlon was mere weeks after our return from St. Petersburg, and I had my heart set on racing.

My first stop was the public swimming pool, located just outside the imposing walls of the Peter and Paul fortress, the site where Peter the Great founded his new capital 300 years ago. The sun glinted off the gold spire of the cathedral, the most majestic building inside the fortress. I tromped across the snow-covered grounds, where Peter himself was posing for photos in full regalia.

Nearby, a small crowd had gathered on the banks of the Neva River. Of course the river was frozen solid, except for a 12-square-meter pool formed by a large hole in the ice. The crowd was watching a gangly teenager as he stripped down to his shorts and plunged into the ice bath. He emerged from the frigid waters and stood proudly with his arms above his head in the sign for Victory. Here was the newest member of the local Walrus Cub, a group of hearty souls who exhort the health benefits of taking a daily dip. Many of the ice swimmers, known as morzhi, or walruses, have been paying regular visits to this spot for twenty years.

Thankfully, this frigid pool was not the one I was looking for. I pulled my fur-lined coat tighter around my shivering body, and continued on my way to the more conventional, eight-lane, 25-meter facility across the street. Entry into the swimming pool required a doctor’s written permission, which could be obtained from the pool’s resident MD after a physical examination. Having heard more than a few horror stories about germ-filled Russian medical facilities, I entered the doctor’s office with trepidation.

Behind the desk sat the platinum blonde, white-smocked doctor, busily filling out forms. "Ahem," I said, as I carefully cased the room for used syringes. "I'm here for a physical."

"I know," she replied, reaching for a blank form. "Name? Birthday?" She duly recorded my replies. The doctor glanced up briefly. "Sixty rubles," she announced, handing me a spravka, or permission slip.

"That's all?" I asked, relieved but puzzled. "Shouldn't I even take off my coat?"

"Why? Are you ill?" The money was quickly deposited in her smock.

"Not at all," I hastened to answer and retreated out the door.

One legacy of the Soviet period is that older women in frumpy uniforms are stationed in all public facilities to shush, scold and tell people nyet. The pool’s babushka was different only in that she sported a hot pink tracksuit to go with the standard-issue cold stare. She enforced a seemingly infinite and ever-changing list of rules.

One of the most important required everyone to take a soapy shower without a bathing suit before entering the pool. Bold signs emphasizing this rule were posted everywhere, and the point was evidently made. The shower room hosted a perpetual performance of splashing suds, flailing limbs, swinging breasts and bouncing buttocks.

The irony was that once you actually made it past all these rules and into the swimming pool, chaos reigned. Standard activities in the lanes included old folks practicing water aerobics; girls gathering mid-lane to gossip; and teenagers diving on your head. On a day that I finally had a lane to myself, the surly babushka in pink interrupted my workout by splashing a kickboard in my face. “Lane one is open,” she barked, pointing to a lane already full of two heavyset ladies and an elderly man.

I looked longingly at the other near-empty lanes. “Only lane one?”

"Only one!” she snarled, and turned to yell at somebody else. Russian service sector workers are notorious for their short tempers and rude remarks. I reflected, as I resumed my swim in the crowded lane, that the public pool is probably the one place where Pinky can exert such authority and others must comply. Such hostile behavior, I thought, is a weapon of the weak.
Eventually, I figured out that the most effective response was not to cower in fear or to yell back. Rather, a smile and a nod are so unexpected, that the perpetrator can’t help but respond in kind. Which does not mean she stopped yelling at me. During my time at the Russian pool, I discovered a whole slew of activities that get you in trouble: wearing shoes in the locker room; entering the pool area without a bathing cap; swimming too fast near the lady with the broken foot; and so on.

After one workout, I was sitting on the edge of the pool when I saw Pinky headed my way. "Don't sit there, young lady," she reprimanded. I smiled weakly, clueless as to what I might be doing wrong. "Don't you want to have children some day? That cold concrete will make you infertile!" Perhaps not scientifically sound, but at least the rule had a reason - for once!

But Pinky and her rigid pool rules were remnants of old Russia. New Russia is a whole different beast, as I discovered when a friend invited me to check out the private sports club where he was a member. Angry babushkas were not welcome here. Instead we were greeted by smiling, trim, young women who seemed genuinely happy to see us. They tried to accommodate every request. And they never yelled.

Members of the gym tended to be well-manicured women who got lots of calls on their cell phones: Russia’s beautiful people. Their hair looked better in aerobics class than mine did at my wedding. The locker room resembled a Victoria Secret catalogue shoot: matching lacy bra and panties seemed to be a prerequisite for club membership.

Planet Fitness had all the features of Bally’s or Gold’s Gym: shiny weight machines, treadmills with heart rate monitors, spinning classes, pilates, towel service, juice bar, jacuzzis… and a hefty $100 per month price tag. That’s a lot of cabbage in a country where the average salary is a meager $300 per month. Most important for my purposes, Planet Fitness had a fully equipped cardio room, complete with stationary bikes. My swimming training was going reasonably well, but this was a triathlon, after all. And how else - when the city was buried in snow - could I bust a move on a bike?

St Petersburg’s river was frozen solid. The wide path along the riverbank, an attractive biking trail in other seasons, was now hidden under several feet of windswept snow. The embankment was deserted, except for the occasional dog walker, hidden by fur coat and hat. Yet here I was, pedaling a 60-minute endurance course, protected by a thick pane of glass that blocked out the howling wind and bitter cold.

On the day we visited Planet Fitness, my friend and I had the cardio room to ourselves, save a jacked trainer assisting a young woman on a Stairmaster. A dozen stationary bikes were lined up like racers awaiting the start gun. The sun shone through the giant windows overlooking the Neva River. The chrome on the bikes glistened in the bright winter light. Outside, icebreakers cut a path through the frozen river and glided past the ironclad battleship Aurora, whose mutinous sailors had started a revolution in 1917. Inside, the room pulsated to a techno beat. I admired the view from my perch atop my stationary bike and anticipated a long soak in the Jacuzzi.

After a while, my friend went to the weight room and left me to pedal it out against the blinking red dot on my bike’s digital display. The muscle-bound trainer seized the opportunity and came over to chat me up. "Can I please to meet with you?" I was never sure how to respond to this ubiquitous pick-up line. "You are foreign lady, no?"

I smiled. "You are Russian, yes?"

He was not discouraged. "I know you are foreign because I see your shoes," he explained, pointing out that we were both wearing New Balance sneakers. He was clearly impressed, as the brand was a rare find in Russia. “I buy them on Regent Street in London,” he boasted. “One hundred pounds.”

“Mine are factory outlet seconds from Boston,” I shot back. “Half price.” Muscles frowned. In new Russia, price is a direct indicator of desirability, so he was unimpressed with my bargain-hunting skills. My fit friend quickly returned his attentions to his trainee. I made a mental note of this effective strategy for deterring unwanted attention from Russian men and pedaled on.

In April, the snow finally began to melt. Local residents emerged from tiny apartments, populating the local parks and gardens and squares when it was still too cold to be comfortable. Art-lovers meandered through the Mikhailovsky Gardens, admiring the handsome façade of the Russian Museum. Mars Field -- traditionally the military parade grounds -- became parade grounds for flirty young girls and nervy boys. The lime trees in the formal Summer Gardens began to bud, adding a touch of green to the fountains and pavilions that had been bare for months.

I longed to take my exercise outdoors, but the thaw was a gradual process. Like an archaeological excavation, each day uncovered a new layer of the winter's history: sleds that were left outside during a storm in February; vodka bottles thrown out after the New Year celebrations; gloves that had been lost since December. The ground was finally visible by the month's end, so I decided to lace up my running shoes and take them for a spin in Tauride Gardens.

Catherine the Great had built the fabulous baroque palace for Grigory Potemkin, a famed general and one of her many lovers. Once the romping grounds of the tsarina, the palace gardens had since become – in true Soviet style -- a park for the people. I thought the tree-lined dirt paths crisscrossing the landscaped park and circling a picturesque pond would make an ideal setting for my triathlon training.

It is an understatement to say that a runner on the street or in the park is an unfamiliar sight in Russia. Even the act of wearing running shorts is bound to attract stares -- ironic in this country where women in midsummer wear little more than lacy undergarments and a pair of heels. A German friend had recounted tales of her jogging adventures in St Petersburg. When she ran past some teenage boys sitting on a park bench drinking beer, they were so amused that they chased after her, poking and taunting. Finally, they could not keep up with her, so they just threw their empty bottles at her. My friend was so distraught that she ran straight home. With this harrowing tale in mind, I arrived at Tauride Gardens in my spandex tights and running shoes, prepared but wary.

A sign on the gate declared that the park was closed for prosushka, or “a thorough drying out”. How appropriate, I thought, this whole country needs a prosushka. But I could see a few folks wandering around inside, most of them pushing baby strollers or, yes, drinking beer.

A park worker sat lackadaisically near the gate and opened it to allow patrons to exit. He would not let me enter. “The park is closed.”

“How did all these people get inside if the park is closed?” I questioned.

“They went in through the entrance on Paradnaya Street,” he said matter-of-factly, pointing across the way. Another group of people left and he locked the gate behind them.
“The park is closed but the other entrance is open?” He did not seem to notice the inherent contradiction.

I trotted a half-mile down the sidewalk and around the corner to see for myself. Sure enough, mothers with children, teenagers with beers, workers with tools – everybody was walking freely in and out of the park. I established a jogging route around the perimeter of the park. I picked up my pace as I ran past ungainly groups of teenage boys clustered on the benches. But they just strummed their guitars and sang their raucous songs, having a ball and paying me no heed. I was also wary of the workers, who could at any moment tire of all these people interfering with their work on the park and expel us. But they also ignored me, concentrating on laying sod and planting flowers.

Kids climbed on the playground while their mothers observed. Artists captured in watercolor the palace’s reflection in the pond. Lovers embraced underneath the trees. The sun shone down on the people and-- despite their defiance of the proposed prosushka-- dried out their park.
After a week or two, emboldened by my success, I took to the streets. I dodged the jovial youths spilling out of sidewalk cafes and wizened women selling produce from their stalls. They stared, but they got out of my way. I cruised past tsars’ grandiose palaces, Lenin’s revolutionary haunts and Dostoevsky’s inspiring canals, exploring St. Petersburg by sneaker.

* * *

At the end of my time in Russia, I was pleased with my training progress. The wrath of the swimming pool babushka had abated as I established my place as a regular in the lanes. My sprints around the city increased in number so I was confident I could outrun any drunken teenager or angry worker. I would have liked to spend more time at Planet Fitness – on the bikes and in the whirlpool – but my friend was out of free guest passes, and I felt fortunate even for my brief stint as one of the beautiful people.

During my last week in Russia, I paid a final visit to the swimming pool. I was wistful as I watched the kids competing in breath-holding contests and women doing sidestroke. I spent a few minutes stretching, partly hoping they would leave the lane, partly hoping, for old times’ sake, that they would not.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my nemesis, the steely-eyed babushka, heading my way. I wondered what crime I might be guilty of. “What are you doing?” she queried. I explained in the most pleasant voice I could muster that I needed to stretch before commencing my workout.

Her face softened. “You are a sportswoman?” Intrigued, she started questioning me about what kinds of workouts I did and what I was training for. She wanted to know all about the triathlon circuit – who organized such events and who competed. This cold, scary woman who had been the source of nightmares became warm, friendly, and downright enthusiastic about my triathlon prospects.

Before I knew it, she was yelling at the old folks and young kids in lane two. “This lane is closed now,” she bellowed. “Move into another lane.” The swimmers looked around in confusion, but crowded into the other lanes without protest.

The babushka turned to me and smiled. “Lane two is yours."

Mara Vorhees is a freelance writer living in Somerville, Massachusetts. She has co-authored guidebooks to destinations as diverse as Russia, Poland and Morocco. She has participated in sprint and Olympic-distance triathlons around New England.