#17: CONBODY
When I discovered CONBODY, my first thought was “what in the prison-industrial-complex-hell is going on here?!” I correctly intuited from the name that it was a fitness class based on prison workouts. But I wrongly assumed those classes would consist of throngs of Vuori-clad women seeking a ~scary~ instructor who would yell at them like they meant it. It didn’t help that their classes have names like “Tough-Love Tuesday” and “Better Booty Wednesday”.
Looking at the website was my first clue that this wasn’t an open-shut case of mass incarceration glorified for a fitness fad, as the company was founded by a formerly incarcerated individual. On that note, what is the preferred moniker for a person who has been imprisoned? Con sounds like it could be a slur, but in general, I don’t know how it would or wouldn’t feel to be labeled in this way based on carceral history. Since in this particular context all the individuals I met self-identified as cons, I will continue to refer to them as such.
Anyway, after the founder’s experiences doing calisthenics in solitary confinement, which he credits with losing a whopping 70 pounds, he decided to start a gym based on the workouts available to him in prison. He only hires people who have been previously incarcerated as instructors and other staff, and has even opened one of New York’s relatively rare legal dispensaries downstairs from the fitness studio, called CONBUD, which is also staffed by formerly imprisoned people. As a white woman who has read one thing of Angela Davis’, I’m contractually obligated to be a fan of the concept (and also prison abolition).
CONBODY has one location, in LES, at the corner of Delancey and Orchard. There’s a massive sign on the building, you literally cannot miss it. Upon entering the studio, I got a little bit of ick from the way the interior was designed to look like a jail, equipped with bright orange lockers and a wall with decals made to look like a mugshot backdrop. During the class they slam closed a giant jail cell door, “locking” you into the studio during the 45-minute class—though I’m certain it’s a sliding door and you could absolutely leave the studio to pee or grab water if you wanted to.
That ick melted away once the instructor came out and shook my hand (firm grip) and introduced himself to me personally, asking what brought me—which never happens in the usually rushed and cliquey-yet-impersonal New York fitness classes.
The studio itself had huge windows on two sides, and a mirror spanning the width of the space. The walls were otherwise painted all black and the floors were outfitted with wall-to-wall black lifting mats. Around the perimeter were various exercise accoutrements: medicine balls, resistance bands, dumbbells, a punching bag, a pull-up bar, and little orange cones like the ones you’d see in a soccer practice. The class filled up at about ten people, and was pretty much split evenly among the sexes. People were wearing mostly shorts and an old t-shirt, but a couple of girls had on cute yoga sets, and one guy wore very well-fitting grey sweatpants.
We started with a warmup that was a circuit of five exercises (jumping jacks, side-to-side squats, burpees [minus the push-up], push-ups, and mountain climbers) each exercise done for I believe 30 or 45 seconds before moving on to the next. After three cycles of this, my heart rate was skyrocketing, my breathing was heavy, and I was starting to perspire big time. If this was the warm-up, I knew I was in for it.
What ensued was a classic hit workout, a circuit of another five exercises, this time each done for a minute, and each circuit done three times in total with short breaks in between. Exercises included dumbbell split squats, a sort of zig-zagged sprinting around cones, alternating toe taps, banded hip thrusts (the one I used to catch my breath), and a jumping jack variation holding a medicine ball. Then we did a couple quick rounds of a game where we were split into two groups, and told to circle up around an orange cone, holding a wide squat stance. At the instructor’s cue, whoever grabbed the cone first won, and everyone who didn’t had to do five burpees.
Though the class included a range of fitness levels, by the end even the most fit-looking guys were reduced to sweat puddles. The camaraderie was higher than any other workout class I’ve taken before, especially in New York where it seems people just want to get in, get the workout done, and get out—here people were high-fiving and lingering to chat long after the class had ended.
CONBODY delivered on being a hard HIIT class that left me with an endorphin rush, and sweaty enough to warrant taking an LMNT (if you’re reading this please sponsor me; I LOVE your electrolyte products in a way those close to me find disconcerting). The jail motif was a little gimmicky at times for my taste but the kindness of both the people working there and working out there—and the way the class truly lived up to its purported intensity level—left me considering myself a fan. Even though I’d ordinarily find it too corny to participate in, I was willing to pose in front of the mugshot wall for a picture for their Instagram story, as is customary for first-timers—if that’s not a glowing endorsement I don’t know what is.