I joined Courtsouth, a local fitness chain, in 1985 or 1986, having been persuaded that I might make better gains if exposed to better equipment. Since 1983 I had been training in a pit—an old YMCA gym with ancient equipment but a dedicated cadre of (male) lifters. When it rained, puddles formed in the corner by the squat rack. The Y was primitive as all hell, but I learned a lot from the guys who trained there, after about six months had passed and they realized that 1) I seemed serious about lifting and 2) I wasn’t going away.
Two of my gym friends from the Y joined Courtsouth, which had frills such as stationary bikes, treadmills, and Nautilus machines, as well as a good supply of benches, bars, and dumbbells. So I got a “lifetime” membership to Courtsouth by paying a chunk of cash upfront, with the proviso that I would then pay $9 a year to maintain the membership.
Sometime during the 1980s the Tennessee legislature outlawed lifetime memberships because so many health clubs sold them, then went belly up. Courtsouth was sold two or three times in the ensuing years, but each time the new owners graciously honored the lifetime contracts.
It was good business to honor those contracts, and I rewarded Courtsouth with six or seven new members over the years—friends and colleagues to whom I recommended the club.
A few weeks ago I received a letter informing me that it was time to renew my membership. I went in for a workout, then stopped at the desk to renew, assuming I’d write a $54 check to renew my and my husband’s memberships for three years at $9 per person per year. (After Steve and I started going out in 1987, he joined as well, for another outlay of cash for a “lifetime” membership.)
When the general manager stepped up and said, “Well, there have been some changes,” I knew the decision had been made not to honor the old contracts. According to a story in our local newspaper, the total number of lifetime members at this point—20 years later—is a few hundred.
To make a long story short, I listened to the general manager’s spiel—delivered with what was supposed to be a sympathetic smile plastered to her face—about what a great deal I was going to get by rejoining, given that I had been a member.
Did I get my money’s worth out of Courtsouth over those 20 years? Without question.
Here’s what I don’t get. In deciding not to honor the lifetime memberships, the new owner (who bought the gym chain in the past year or two) is making it clear that he values the comparatively small sum he might get from his former lifetime members more than he does loyalty. It’s just dumb. Negative word of mouth spreads—I’ve read while doing marketing research—to seven times more people than positive word of mouth. We just can’t wait to tell our friends how some company treated us badly.
So, of course, I’ve been complaining to everyone I know.
And Courtsouth has lost my business. The “great” deal the general manager offered me and my husband was nearly twice the monthly fee we’re paying to the Rush, the club we’ve now joined. Well, we’re not really paying a monthly fee because I bought four years’ worth of membership up front. But averaged out, it’s significantly cheaper.
The good news is that the Rush is larger—with twice as many aerobic machines and weight machines as well as many more options in both categories. Plenty of benches, Olympic bars, plates, dumbbells, and fixed bars too. It’s also cleaner, which isn’t a bad thing.
So I’m irritated that I had to spend the money to join a new club, but doing so has given my motivation a nice kick. I also have a new workout partner—my sister-in-law, whom I’ve been training at an extremely minimal gym at my brother’s office complex. She’s had a membership to the Rush but hadn’t been using it . . . so now we can take advantage of the club together.
