FITNESS CONFIDENTIAL
Read FITNESS CONFIDENTIAL Online
Authors: Vinnie Tortorich,Dean Lorey
FITNESS CONFIDENTIAL
By
Vinnie Tortorich
&
Dean Lorey
FITNESS CONFIDENTIAL
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Copyright © 2013 Vinnie Tortorich & Dean Lorey
. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Cover designed by Patrick Bradley
Cover photo:
Copyright © David Zaugh
Interior photos taken by:
Weight Room by Cy Tortorich
Shirtless, white shorts by Michael Tortorich
Serena and Dean by Vinnie Tortorich
Group shot by Marie Tortorich
Vinnie on bike, Rainbow, Vinnie with milkshake, Vinnie on long desert road, Vinnie shirtless by Serena Scott Thomas
Hug by Chris Kostman
Published by Telemachus Press, LLC
http://www.telemachuspress.com
Visit the authors’ websites:
http://www.vinnietortorich.com
http://www.deanlorey.com
ISBN: 978-1-939337-91-7 (eBook)
ISBN: 978-1-939337-92-4 (Paperback)
Version 2013.06.21
Table of Contents
WHY CALORIES IN, CALORIES OUT IS BULLSHIT
USE THE GYM, DON’T LET IT USE YOU
THE TOUGHEST FORTY-EIGHT HOURS IN SPORTS
SOMETIMES YOU GET THE BEAR,
SOMETIMES THE BEAR GETS YOU
I CAN DO BETTER THAN DANIEL DAY LEWIS
“We understand you’re the go-to guy for taking weight off people.”
I was sitting in a conference room, staring at a
r
ogue
’s gallery of Hollywood types. There was a top showrunner preparing a new sitcom, the managers of the show’s star, plus an exec from Disney along with the usual group of faceless nobodies who seem to be in every meeting in Tinseltown filling up space.
I wasn’t exactly sure how to respond. It was the early nineties. I’d only been in L.A. a couple of years and my personal training career was just starting to gain traction.
“Yeah, I’m the guy,” I said, wondering how they even got my name.
They glanced at each other nervously. It was clear they had a problem, or at least they thought they did, and somehow I was supposed to solve it.
“Can you take thirty-five pounds off someone?” the manager asked.
“That depends,” I replied. “Does this person have thirty-five pounds to lose?”
Again, they glanced at each other. Finally, the network exec spoke. “We think so.”
“Then, yeah,” I said. “Sure.”
There was a visible sigh of relief. The showrunner leaned toward me. “Can you do it in six weeks?”
More than five pounds a week. That’s a tall order. Not to mention unhealthy, which is what I told them.
The manager stared at me, then wrote something on a slip of paper. He slid it over to me.
It said: $10,000.
I stared at it for a minute. I’ve never been a money guy, but I’m not crazy.
“Yeah, no problem,” I said. I figured I could help whoever this was take at least twenty, twenty-five pounds off in a healthy way and everyone would be satisfied. Which raised a larger question.
“Exactly who are we talking about here?” I asked. The whole thing was so shrouded in secrecy I was wondering if they were bringing in the First Lady to do a sitcom.
The network executive narrowed his eyes. “You know who Lucille Ball is?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “But it’s gonna be hard to train a dead person.”
“We’re creating the new Lucille Ball. She’s going to star in a sitcom for us.” He said her name. You’d recognize it. “She’s talented, but she failed her screen test. The issue is the weight. Your job is to make that issue go away.”
It was like being in
The Godfather,
except I was the only Italian in the room.
“No problem,” I said. “I’ll get to work.”
Believe it or not, this was a typical day for me. I never knew what to expect when I went to work in the morning. One time I got a phone call from a Beverly Hills housewife who told me she needed my help to get into shape. I showed up to find her in a silk robe. She stripped it off to reveal a smoking-hot body.
“I want you to make this better,” she said. “I want a body like a porn star.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her she was already there. Who’s going to deny a woman willing to strip naked on the first workout?
Then there was the male film star who hired me, paid me three times to show up, then fired me without ever meeting me. His reasoning? He wasn’t feeling my “vibe.” I told him he might be able to feel it better if we were ever actually in the same room.
One of the best moments was the first time I heard my name mentioned on
The Tonight Show
. That was when I felt I’d arrived.
I’ve been a Beverly Hills personal trainer for over twenty-two years and I’ve seen it all. Along the way, I’ve helped hundreds of people get into shape. CEOs, celebrities, athletes—you name it. Whenever I meet people, the first thing they usually tell me is what went into their mouth and came out their ass. They’re looking for my blessing or forgiveness, like I’m a priest of fat. The truth is, I like hearing about it—but I’m the only one. You want to know who doesn’t care what diet you’re on?
Everyone else
.
But I care.
And I’ve been caring a long time. In the past quarter century, I’ve learned all the dirt there is about the fitness game—and even created some of it. I know where the bodies are buried. And I’m going to show them to you.
I'm going to expose the nasty little tricks health clubs play to get you to sign up. These guys make used car salesmen look like they belong in a nunnery. Note to nuns: I’m coming after you, too. But don’t worry, not only will I show you how to get the best deal, I’ll show you how to use the place to your advantage once you’re in.
I'm going to tell you how you can figure out which personal trainers are great and which ones suck. I have a degree in fitness from Tulane University along with the pre-requisite muscles and bright teeth. Most of the other trainers only have two of those three.
I’m going to tell you which so-called “fitness products” are worth your cash and which ones aren’t worth the box they came in.
I’m looking at you, Thighmaster.
I’ll tell you everything. And, along the way, I’m going to piss a lot of people off. They don’t call me “America’s Angriest Trainer” for nothing.
Over the years, I’ve noticed that most people don’t take my career seriously. A doctor once called me a “fringe player” because he couldn’t understand what I was doing with my life.
“You’re way too smart to be a trainer,” he told me.
You’d be surprised how much I get that attitude.
When I was a kid, the job didn’t even exist. All my friends wanted to drive a fire truck when they grew up, but I never heard any of them say, “Hey, I think I want to be a trainer.”
I guess I understand that. My life isn’t exactly what you’d call normal. If there’s a white picket fence around, I’ve never walked through it.
I don’t draw a weekly paycheck. In fact, the work is all freelance. I only get paid when I show up at a client’s door and they hand me a check.
I don’t work nine to five. I wake up at 4 a.m. to get ready to meet my first client at six. People ask me why I need two hours and I tell them “one of us has to be awake and I’m the one getting paid.” Usually, I don’t have my last client until after 10 p.m. I work when my client is free.
When most people are off on the weekends, I’m going into my busy period. In fact, the very concept of a “week” has no meaning for me. When I’m driving around to meet my clients, I hear guys on the radio talking about “Blue Monday,” and how Wednesday is “hump day,” and how it’s time to celebrate “TGIF.”
It’s all the same to me.
Saturday night is the only night that’s a little different, because I’ll usually pour myself a glass of scotch—but only one. Remember, I have to meet my first client at 6 a.m. the next morning. On Sunday.
I live in my car. Not really, but it feels that way. I work a minimum of sixteen-hour days and at least four of those are spent on the freeways in L.A. When asked what I do for a living, I usually answer, “I drive!”
The only meal I eat at home is breakfast. Lunch could be at ten in the morning or four in the afternoon, depending on my client’s schedule. Dinner, if I can get it, is whenever I can squeeze it in.
I spend my day getting people to do things they don’t want to do. Lift heavy weights, run long distances, cycle up mountains. I’m half drill sergeant; half armchair psychologist and I have to be as enthusiastic with the first client as with the last. They don’t want to know you’ve had a rough day—they’ve had a rough day.
When I step foot into my client’s homes, I usually feel like the help. I’m just another person they employ, but instead of fixing their cars or appliances, I’m fixing them. The only difference between the rest of the help and me is that I see them at their most vulnerable.
And, because of that, I hear everything.
Why do women go to hairdressers just to get their hair blown out? They could just as easily do that at home for free, but they’ll spend the time and effort to drive all the way to a hair salon just so that they can gossip about their lives to a friendly ear.
Same with personal trainers.
Unlike at a hair salon where there’s no privacy, the client and I are alone at the client’s house, talking about extremely personal things. It’s not uncommon for a woman to strip down naked in front of me to show me a place that hurts or an area they want to improve. I’ve had women ask me to check their breasts for lumps. I explain to them that I’m not a doctor and wouldn’t know what a lump is supposed to feel like, but they’re comfortable with me and want me to check anyway.
I always do … and then recommend that they see a doctor.
Speaking of breasts, Beverly Hills is the fake tit capital of the world. I can’t begin to tell you the amount of clients I’ve had that get a boob job and, as soon as they see me, pop open their tops, eager to show off their new purchase. They all ask the same question.
“Do these look real?”
I always give them the same answer.
“Yes.”
That reminds me of a Vinnie-ism.
If you want me to tell you the truth, I’m going to have to lie.
Truth is, I’ve yet to see a boob job I liked. But I sure have massaged a lot of them. Every time I hear that a client is going to get a boob job, I immediately wonder when this uncomfortable conversation is going to take place.
Them: “This may sound kind of strange—”
As soon as I hear “this may sound kind of strange” I know I’m about to be asked to do what I call the “jug rub.”
Them: “This may sound kind of strange but my doctor says, in order to avoid building up scar tissue—which would make my boobs feel unnatural—they have to be massaged several times a day.” I usually pretend that this is the first time I’ve ever heard this.
Me: “Oh, really?”
Them: “Would you mind? Is it weird for me to ask you to massage them?”
Me: “Can’t you get your husband to do that?”
They usually answer one of two ways.
Them: “He always says he’s too tired.”
OR
Them: “As soon as he starts to play with them, we end up having sex.”
Whenever I hear that, I always wonder why she thinks that, when
I’m
playing with them,
I’m
not going to want to have sex. Amazingly, I’ve never once let the situation get inappropriate—aside from how inappropriate the whole thing is.
And it’s not just the women.
No, I’ve never massaged a guy’s breasts, but I do have one client who likes to take the occasional session to have me shave his back because his wife refuses to do it. No problem. I’m handy with a razor. And to take the sting out of the awkwardness of the whole deal, while I’m doing it, we usually talk football—even when it’s not football season.
Many women think the only thing guys care about are their penises. I’ve got news for these ladies. They’re right. The top three questions I get from guys all deal with their schlongs.
Them: “Hey, we’re about the same age, right?”
This is the male version of the female conversation starter “this may sound kind of strange.” As soon as a guy says to me, “Hey, we’re about the same age, right?” I know that one of three questions is about to be asked.
QUESTION ONE
Them: “Hey, we’re about the same age, right?”
Me (dreading this): “Yeah.”
Them: “Your thing ever go limp when you’re having sex?”
Me: “Uh … not really.”
Them: “You think it’s normal if it happens?”
Me: “Uh … I’m not a urologist.”
QUESTION TWO
Them: “Hey, we’re about the same age, right?”
Me (dreading this): “Yeah.”
Them: “You ever notice that you don’t have as many orgasms when you have sex as you used to?”
Me: “Well, it’s not like when I was eighteen.”
Them: “So you think it’s normal?”
Me: “Uh … I’m not a urologist.”
QUESTION THREE
Them: “Hey, we’re about the same age, right?”
Me (dreading this): “Yeah.”
Them: “You ever notice your pee stream is not as strong as it used to be?”
Me: “
Go see a damn urologist
!”
But it’s not just physical stuff. Clients want to tell me every intimate detail of their personal lives.
I’ve had female clients tell me that they’re planning to divorce their husbands and take off with the kids. Then I see their husbands, who I’m also training, and they literally have no idea that their world is about to be turned upside down.
One husband kept telling me about all the hookers he brought into his office because his wife wouldn’t sleep with him. Meanwhile, when I’m working out with his wife, she says her husband has no sexual interest in her, but that she’s interested in me. She tried to seduce me every time I went there, even going so far as to show up dressed in a miniskirt, stripper heels and bustier. Not exactly appropriate gear for the treadmill. She turned up the music and proceeded to start what could only be described as a lap dance. I have a steadfast rule not to get involved with clients and told her so. She ended up apologizing and we never brought it up again.
But, most of the time, along with the workouts, I’m a friendly ear and a shoulder to cry on. Clients often can’t wait to tell me everything that’s going on in their lives, so much so that I have trouble remembering it all.
“They said yes!” a client might chirp as I walk through the door.
“Great!” I reply, trying to remember exactly who was supposed to say yes to what.
To some clients, I’m the go-to guy about everything.
In 1994, I was in Aspen when the big Northridge earthquake hit L.A. As soon as it happened, I got calls from three different clients all asking me the same question. What should I do? I had to explain to them that I’m from Louisiana and don’t have much in the way of earthquake training.
And not only do I become the go-to guy, I often become part of the family.
The kids of many of my clients start calling me “Uncle Vinnie” and want me to go watch them during a baseball game or see them in a play. And sometimes I go.
I usually have the keys to my clients’ houses and the codes to their alarms. I’ve gotten calls at two in the morning from clients who got locked out of their homes and need me to drive over and let them in. I always do.
One guy told a friend of his that hiring me was the best deal he ever made because his wife dropped her shrink soon after she started working out with me.
