The First Counsel

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The sign on the door of Room 11 reads "Athletic Unit," but everyone knows it's far more than that. Built by Bob Haldeman during the Nixon administration and limited to only the biggest of the bigshots, the Senior Staff Exercise Room is easily the most exclusive private gym in the country. Indeed, fewer than fifty people have keys. On an average day, I'd be slaughtered if I set foot in here. But at four in the morning, in desperate need of a shower and on the eve of my most important professional moment, I'll take my chances.

With one last look around the deserted hallway, I slide the key in the door. It opens without a hitch. "Cleaning crew!" I shout, just to be safe. "Anyone here?" No one answers. Inside, it doesn't take long to tour around. There's a beat-up StairMaster, an outdated stationary bicycle, a broken treadmill, and an odd pile of rusty weights. The place is a shithole. I'd kill for a regular pass.

After a quick workout on the bike and a fifteen-minute stop in the sauna, I'm standing in the shower, letting the hot water run over me. Every time I get accustomed to the temperature, I turn it up a little more. With my eyes closed and my palms pressed firmly against the tile, I'm lost in the steam and completely relaxed. Every day should start this way.