Fitness not on top shelf in U.S. stores

By Steve Davis
Knight Ridder News Service

Sometimes it takes a crisis to inspire a burst of clarity. Here's a for-instance.

I was at a large discount store when I spotted an old girlfriend. Well, you know how relationship terminations can be. Sometimes these things can be worked out amicably. Other times, not so much.

She was of the "not so much" variety.

But she had not spotted me. Thinking quickly, I sorted through the options to determine exactly what any brave, sensitive, New Age male would do:

I hid behind a huge display of gallon-container ranch dressing.

And that's when a thought walloped me like a super-size stalk of organically grown celery: ranch dressing? Gallon containers?

"Well," I thought, "that probably wasn't something dreamed up by the President's Council on Physical Fitness."

A sudden, determined concern for my fellow man distracted me from the crisis at hand. ("Crisis," you say? I'm telling you, this particular ex-girlfriend could be mean.)

Here's the point: It was suddenly clear to me that booking passage on the Good Ship Health and Fitness is no easy chore in our country. Simply put, our consumer culture makes it easier to be sedentary and obese.

I had visited this particular large store to pick up a new Ironman watch. (Aside: the Ironman remains the standard-bearer timepiece for runners and triathletes who appreciate reliability and value — and who think the name "Ironman" makes them look tougher than they are.)

Seeking to save a few George Washingtons by going to a big retailer, I went to the aforementioned large den of consumer decadence. You might be surprised how many patently unhealthy products you have to maneuver past en route to the sport watches.

First, it's not bad enough that a half-dozen fast-food franchises wallow within a few blocks of said unnamed establishment. As soon as you walk through the sliding double doors (sliding, so you expend no energy gaining access), the smell is all over you like "buffalo" on a "wing": It's french fries!

There's a McDonald's inside the store. And say what you will about Ronald's recent struggles, his fries still rock. And suddenly I was feeling like Indiana Jones in "Raiders of the Lost Ark" when he confronts his weakness, snakes.

"Fries," I'm saying to myself, a la Indiana. "Why did it have to be fries?"

Mustering strength, I focused on my mission and proceeded with the hunt.

I walked past six huge soda machines near the entrance. Six! What, are people that thirsty from negotiating the sliding glass doors?

I spotted the magazine rack and squinted to see if any health periodicals were prominently displayed. Alas, my view was partially obscured by a 5-foot-high cigarette kiosk that dwarfed my first apartment.

I found the sporting goods. Not a bad supply. For instance, if you want to go play a little baseball or softball, they've got about 14 or 15 types of gloves from which to choose.

My faith in religion, country and healthy triglyceride levels was moving back in the right direction. Then ... I saw the display of TV sets. I counted 28 different choices. At least I think there were 28; I was distracted when I bumped into a parked Barcalounger.

Festering despair was sinking in again.

The place did have a reasonable supply of vitamins and supplements. And it did have fresh fruits and vegetables. I found them right over by the boat-sized display of doughnuts and freshly baked cupcakes.

Eat, drink and be mucho, eh?

So I found my Ironman (at a good price ... yippee!) and started to make my way out. But not before one final gut punch.

I noticed a display of funnel cake kits ("As seen on TV!"). Funnel cakes are to your arteries what Michael Jackson is to normalcy.

These kits were right next to a display of tabloids. Best headline: Lisa Marie's new man sparks family feud!

And there you have it. Mush for your gut and mush for your brain.

At the very least, there is a certain symmetry.