Reprinted from Palm Beach Post Wednesday June 18, 2003 issue. Frank is a columnist for the Post and is a member of MBS.

It’s official. I’ve surrendered to Boca’s subculture of fitness.

I can no longer snicker as an outsider, pretending to be some kind of detached observer.

I am here to confess. I re-upped my membership at a local gym.

This is no small thing for me. You see, I've prided myself in being a road warrior, a guy who was too savvy for the workout culture come-ons. I've always been my own personal trainer.

And I’ve preferred riding my bike into a natural breeze, and running in the summer sun, rather than joining the hermetically sealed, manicured and stylish environment of a local gym.

I had no interest in lifting weights or learning step aerobics, and I couldn't see the point in working out in airconditioned comfort when the no-pain-no-gain exercise ethic had been ingrained in me since my cross-country running days in high school.

My wife, on the other hand, had always appreciated her gym membership, happily going off to the gym with her friend, both of them mapping out their weeks by the string of available aerobics classes.

Long ago, my wife tried running with me. But she stopped after a few minutes to tell me how much she hated it. She has always preferred the group form of indoor exercise.

A few years ago, she persuaded me to go with her. Now, it was my turn for pure humiliation.

I found myself "shazaying” --or whatever you call it -- in the wrong direction during a step aerobics class. There I was prancing against the grain, as rows of women in leotards stampeded toward me.

I felt as if I were, flunking my audition for A Chorus Line, rather than getting a workout.

I escaped to a treadmill, where I ran like a caged hamster until the class was finished.

Never again, I told myself.

But my kids started going, and I started softening on my no-pain-no-gain philosophy as I got older.

Maybe running on a bouncy treadmill, rather than an unforgiving sidewalk wouldn't be so hard on my knees and my aching left foot. And maybe those spinning classes are a safer, quicker alternative to spending three hours on the road.

And come to think of it, I couldn’t do as many chin-ups as I thought I could. Maybe a little weights wouldn’t be a bad idea to firm things up.

And so last year, the whole family got annual memberships at Michael’s Body Scenes on 18th Street in suburban Boca. The idea was that we could all work out together, especially on weekend mornings.

Shared fun, or misery--depending on your point of view.

And with a good bagel restaurant in the same shopping plaza, you could, happily undo any workout with a nice, big breakfast.

I can't say that we wore out our memberships, but when it came time to renew last month, everyone did.

"Have you ever tried yoga?" I tell my friends now. "It’s great"

I’ve become one of those Boca people I used to mock. I run on a treadmill, blasphemy in my more serious running days. I dabble in spinning and barbell classes. And I’m working on my down-dog position in yoga.