Deep thoughts and heavy weights occupy much of Chip Conrad's mind and time.
One minute, he's liable to quote from Emerson or the Tao Te Ching. The next, he's burrowing under tremendous weight in the squat rack and grunting mightily as a Dead Kennedys song blares. Well-rounded of personality and well-cut of physique, Conrad, 37, has come to terms with his seemingly dichotomous nature.
To him, philosophy and physicality are inextricably linked – as illustrated, he points out, by the Bhagavad-Gita's "free the mind and manipulate the body" edict.
Yet in a lighter moment on the couch at his Sacramento gym, Bodytribe Fitness – where two cats, Jack and Chuey, slink around the plants and artwork as the dog, Lulu, watches impassively – Conrad exhibits yet another side: humor.
A veritable postmodern Bartlett, he offers up a favorite quotation: "I take my silliness far too seriously to be bothered by your silly seriousness."
OK, Chip, so who said that?
Kurt Vonnegut or Joseph Campbell, two of his favorite thinkers? Or is it a lyric from Slayer, the speed- metal band he has revered since his teen years?
"No," Conrad replies, somewhat sheepishly. "I said that."
A tribe of followers
He hastens to explain.
"Look at what we do in the gym: We pick stuff up and then put it down, then we pick it up again and put it back down. That's ridiculous. It's silly. And yet, to me, it's a passion. But when a passion becomes too serious, it becomes an obsession. And that's silly."
This vibe has drawn people to Bodytribe for nearly five years since it opened on 21st Street, near J Street, in midtown. The flora and fauna of the place, the art on the walls, the absence of mirrors and the use of nontraditional gym equipment such as sandbags, kettle bells and giant tires – all of that has drawn a close-knit following of swim-against-the-mainstream types.
A tribe, if you will.
Its members are clearly more concerned with being healthy than merely looking healthy. Still, Conrad adds, the two aren't mutually exclusive. In fact, his holistic approach appeals to younger, artistic types who might be repelled by the vanity of mainstream health clubs where, as Conrad says, you're judged by your "packet of flesh."
Goofiness helps, too, since Conrad has been known to name some of his equipment after Shakespearean characters.
'It's the alterna-gym'
The non-jock nature of Bodytribe appealed to Allyson Goble, 39, a singer and part owner of True Love Coffee House. She joined three years ago. Before, she had known Conrad only as a session drummer.
"There's no boring fitness talk here. This place is midtown. It's the alterna-gym. And Chip reflects everything a true midtowner is. I call him the 'Intellectual Powerlifter,' and he just laughs. He's aware he's not your run-of-the-mill gym owner. He should be proud of that."
Conrad doesn't harbor messianic pretensions. He rejects talk that he is an authority figure leading acolytes on the road to fitness and enlightenment. Suggest it, and his face betrays an embarrassment as red as his high-top sneakers.
"I love the tribe concept – community – so it's not about me," Conrad says. "But I realize, as Emerson wrote, 'An institution is the length and shadow of one person.' So, yeah, it's my concept. But getting like-minded people together for a good time is not a unique concept."
In a health club setting, it might be. "Boutique gyms" like Bodytribe have struggled to survive in a sector dominated by corporate entities, according to the American Council on Exercise, a trade group. But, says ACE exercise physiologist Cedric Bryant, mainstream clubs are adopting the "functional fitness" tenets espoused by the likes of Conrad.
"As long as you have proper exercise progression, using sandbags and tires and other unstable weight-bearing (objects) offers benefits," Bryant says. "It helps prepare you for what you encounter in life. We're seeing more clubs do that."
Such news might make Conrad's brow furrow. He has always zagged where others have zigged. He put in many years at "corporate clubs" – he was fitness director at the now-defunct Midtown Athletic Club – but tired of "putting people on treadmills like hamsters on a wheel."
Call The Bee's Sam McManis, (916) 321-1145.
