It was a relationship that was never going to work. Even if I did relish the idea of paying someone to put me through pain, there was just no way I could place my unfit-self into the hands of a trainer named Forrest.

The creativity many young Chinese display in selecting an English name is great (after all, there's far too many Johns in the Western world) but this particular word association was just plain wrong.

He'd tell me to punch out 10 more push-ups (no, it was never going to happen) and all I could think of was yelling back, "run, Forrest, run!"

When he could have been Muscles or Hot-Boy or even Hercules, why this personal trainer chose the moniker of one of the most cumbersome characters in movie history was a mystery.

So after our ill-fated first training session at my new Beijing gym, Forrest kept calling, and I kept ignoring. Which, despite being in a foreign country, was in line with all the past dealings I've had with over-zealous fitness fiends elsewhere. Whenever Mr Gump rang, I'd offer some lame excuse about how I was too busy/tired/sick/broke to come to the gym, and he always replied with, "Ok. Yes, today. What time can you train?"

Sensing a communication breakdown, I gritted my teeth and decided it was time to stop beating around the bush and instead be blunt. So, in the simplest of words, I made it clear that I did not want his services, now or at any stage in the future. Just to be certain, I had a Chinese friend repeat the message so Gump got it in both languages.

"Ok. Yes, today. What time can you train?" Forrest smiled. I'm sure he stifled a laugh.

This was when I realised that rather than any language barrier, the issue was in fact the doctrine drummed into cut-throat fitness trainers (and telecommunications salespeople) the world over: If at first you don't succeed, pester, pester again.

But that little gripe aside, everything else about my new gym is fantastic. I joined up purely because I wouldn't dream of wasting a bona fide sign-here-and-save membership deal.

But as it turned out, they had heaps of new equipment, step machines galore and group classes beyond the usual Nanna-aerobics. Not that I felt particularly inclined to practice yoga in a room heated to 40 degrees Celsius after a sticky summer's day, but it was nice to have that option.

Best of all, though, was the clientele. The odd gorilla grunting through super-sets aside - and without the frenzied trainers there to crack the whip - most of this gym's members seemed to have come to enjoy the city views from the high-rise complex's tall, glass windows.

The bank of treadmills facing the skyline was the most popular vantage point, but you had to come early to stake your spot. Once the ladies got on these babies, they weren't letting them go. This wasn't about exertion - the whiz-bang treadmills may have reached dizzying inclines and silly speeds, but their users set the level firmly around zero. With mobile phones glued to their ears, this active bunch cruised along, not going anywhere for hours on end, catching up on the latest gossip with everyone on their speed dials.

Even for those who did venture to the weights room, pumping iron was not the priority. Each chest press was strictly performed between the transmitting of text messages. The only sweat being raised here was by those reclining in the facility's saunas.

But if all that seems too taxing, members could always just read about others working out, online at the Internet bar, or do a few sets of hand-to-mouth drills in the cafe with a double-cream mochaccino (skim milk, of course).

This leisurely approach to exercise was definitely the way to go.

If only I could motivate myself to get back there. Now, where did I put Forrest's number?

Contact the author at viva_goldner@yahoo.com.au

(China Daily 05/30/2007 page15)