On germ patrol at the gym
Gyms, in my book, should be clean. Not just somewhat kept up, but absolutely spotless. That’s why I have no hesitation chasing down people who fail to wipe down their machine after sliming it with copious amounts of sweat or who leave the shower with questionable things floating atop the drain.
I’ve always felt alone in this fixation. Then I met Marcia Jeffries, an environmental health specialist with the County of Los Angeles Department of Public Health, Recreational Health Program.
It’s her job to make sure that gym locker rooms are mildew-free, pools are crystal clear, and saunas don’t have anything scary growing in them (she also checks out pools and spas in apartment complexes, condos, hotels, schools and hospitals). If you file a complaint against your gym for scummy machines or fetid hot tubs, Jeffries (or one of her colleagues) will check it out -- often the same day -- write the gym up if necessary, make sure the managers have fixed the problem, schedule a court hearing if they haven’t, and get back to you with the results. She carries a badge.
Well, actually, she leaves her badge at home because she doesn’t like to tote it around. If I had a badge, you can bet I’d be flashing it everywhere, like at dinner parties.
I followed the 59-year-old Jeffries around for a day to not only see what she encounters, but also to find out if gyms are potentially big petri dishes loaded with horrible disease-causing bacteria and viruses. Not that that’s on my mind a lot.
Jeffries reassured me that most are pretty clean, because it’s just good business practice. But she’s seen some things in her 20 years as an inspector in L.A. (16 of those in environmental health), things most people shouldn’t see. Gross things. Icky things.
Test time
On a recent morning, our first stop is at 24 Hour Fitness in West Hollywood. After informing management that she’s here on a routine inspection, Jeffries heads straight for the women’s whirlpool, tools in hand: a water testing kit and official health department forms.
The whirlpool’s heater isn’t working (which explains the absence of people), but Jeffries still checks the water by scooping some into a small, calibrated acrylic box and adding chemicals that turn the water a specific color, based on chlorine and pH levels (pinkish for chlorine, reddish to orange for pH). Pronouncing both OK, Jeffries says that the lack of heat isn’t an issue, but excessive heat is. “Anything above 104 degrees is dangerous,” she says, and in violation of code, which means she can tell the gym to close the whirlpool. A too-hot tub can trigger a heart attack or stroke that, in the worst-case scenario, can be fatal. Inspectors don’t, however, test for bacteria levels. “We don’t have any labs,” Jeffries says, so gym members suspicious of a high bacteria count have to take a sample to a private lab and foot the bill themselves. “But when the agent [i.e. chlorine] is good,” Jeffries adds, “you know [the water] is pretty good. It’s going to kill anything in there.”
After checking for proper water-safety signage, Jeffries heads to the women’s locker room with the no-nonsense approach of a drill sergeant checking recruit barracks. Faucets are flipped on and off, toilets are flushed and air hand-dryers are activated, creating a cacophonous symphony of bathroom noises. “Everything’s in working order, just like it would be in your home,” she shouts over the din. Well, in somebody’s home.
Showers are inspected next: Surveying the dirt-free grout, she pronounces these showers “really clean. They’re doing a good job.” Then she notices a couple of tiles missing from the bottom corner of one of the shower stalls. “That’s a minor violation and needs to be repaired,” she says. “Somebody could scratch their foot.”
The sauna’s not working (no heat; the assistant manager says it’s being checked), but Jeffries spots more broken tiles. A woman lies on a bench, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the room is barely warm.
The pool water is tested, the filter, pumps and chlorination systems inspected, and Jeffries makes sure the life preservers are in good shape. She offers this handy tip: “If you can smell chlorine, it’s bad, and you shouldn’t get in.” High levels can exacerbate breathing problems for those with respiratory ailments, and cause bloodshot eyes and skin irritation. Insufficient levels won’t kill bacteria and organisms such as algae.
Then it was time to check out the men’s locker room. Because she’s a woman, Jeffries can’t waltz in unannounced, but she can ask management to let members know she’s coming through.
When she gets the all-clear, the inspection goes smoothly. The locker room and whirlpool get a clean bill of health. She writes her report and agrees to come back in three weeks to make sure everything’s been fixed. If a gym refuses to make repairs, it can be taken to court and fined, and the pool or hot tub in question shut down until fixed.
Gyms with pools and whirlpools receive twice-a-year routine inspections; those without are visited on a complaint-only basis. The higher priority goes to gyms with pools because the potential for spreading diseases and viruses through water is high. The county has 12 inspectors in charge of about 1,000 commercial pools (what percentage are at gyms is unknown).
Our next stop is the Hollywood YMCA. At the check-in desk, there’s a sign informing members that the whirlpool is a toasty 106 degrees, which doesn’t make Jeffries happy. She heads over to the pool area and tests the water in the Y’s two pools (the chlorine and pH levels are both OK) and notes a missing safety sign and life preserver. She asks for a thermometer to test the whirlpool’s water temperature but knows it’s too high the instant she sticks her hand in: “I can just tell,” she says. It’s foamy too, also not a good sign -- body oils and lotions can cause that -- but the unwelcome suds can be taken care of with a few drops of defoamer. She makes sure the anti-vortex cover, which prevents people from being sucked in, is in good shape.
Gym staffers shut down the whirlpool and cordon it off until the temperature’s at a safe level. Men’s and women’s locker rooms are inspected, but other than some dirty grout and minor wall damage, there’s not much to complain about.
Jeffries learns from the Y’s building engineer Cris Castanon that the whirlpool water is drained every two weeks. “You should drain it at least twice a week,” she says emphatically. “You don’t have to, but I strongly recommend it,” she says.
Hygiene matters
Her work at the Y done, we head to lunch, where I cut to the chase and ask Jeffries what’s the most disgusting thing she’s ever encountered in a gym. She pauses over some pasta salad and says that, a few years ago, she was answering a complaint about a men’s whirlpool. “I turned off the jets, and there was this ... brown crud. This thick,” she says, holding her thumb and forefinger about 5 inches apart. “I yelled at the guys who had been in there. ‘You have got to be kidding me. How can you sit in this?’ ”
Which brought us to another topic that had been on my mind: How can some people tolerate some of the more hazardous gym situations, such as stepping into a shower barefoot or using a machine that’s dripping with sweat? I always wipe down equipment after I’ve been on it, but I often encounter people waiting for the machine who blithely say, “That’s OK, don’t bother.” Don’t bother? Not that I’m harboring the Ebola virus, but come on.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Jeffries says. “People are stupid. Just the other day I had a complaint about a cloudy pool at an apartment complex, and when I went out there, there was all this debris in the bottom, and I knew there was no chlorine. There were two young women in the pool, and I said, ‘Why are you in this pool? Look at it! Whenever a pool is looking like this, don’t get in.’ But I’m telling you, the majority of the public isn’t aware.”
They’re oblivious, she says, to contaminated pool and hot-tub water potentially causing skin and eye irritations or vaginal infections. “Fecal accidents,” as Jeffries puts it, can turn a whirlpool into a nice vat of E. coli broth, and athlete’s foot -- everyone’s favorite -- can get you in the shower. “How much are flip-flops?” Jeffries asks. “$1.99?”
She’s seen gym equipment encrusted with the sweat of a thousand exercisers -- not a pretty sight, and hardly hygienic. The dreaded MRSA, or methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus, is an antibiotic-resistant staph germ that can cause lesions, rashes and sores. It can possibly be contracted by touching an open wound to a tainted piece of equipment, although Eric Edwards, the department’s chief environmental health specialist, says, “We don’t hear about it too often.”
By law, gyms don’t have to provide sanitizers or paper towels, although I’d venture most do. If they don’t, Jeffries suggests you bring your own, and wipe equipment down before and after using it. “People might look at you and smile a little bit” -- as in, who’s that person with OCD -- but she suggests not giving it a second thought. “You have to be conscientious.”
Showering after a workout, or at least washing your hands, is a good idea too -- and invest in those flip-flops. She recommends taking up any complaints about cleanliness or repairs with the gym’s management first, and if results aren’t satisfactory, call the Health Department and it will investigate. “Awareness,” Jeffries says, “is the key.”
Maybe she’ll even bring her badge.
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To contact the Recreational Health Program, go to lapublichealth.org/eh/progs/envirp/ehrec.htm
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