Market Research:
The Theragun

The Theragun is a device that does the work for you, as all serious self-care products should. It requires very little measurable effort: from any position—my personal favorite: lying down, leaning on my left side like the Mike cover—all I have to do is pick it up, hold it to my body, press a button and watch it pump. The pumping reminds me of the hummingbirds hovering near my balcony in L.A.; the speed is impossible to gauge with the naked eye, but, according to the product specs, it ranges from 1750 to 2400 percussions per minute (PPM).

I must admit: watching that many PPMs in action is what piqued my interest to begin with. Call it a gift from the algorithm gods. Sometime last year, a sponsored ad for the Theragun cut through the usual content (gallery opening posts and #squatsaturdays videos) and stopped my thumb mid-scroll. In it, a woman held a device—black, shiny, compact—and, with a warm, enthusiastic expression, jackhammered the surface of her muscular thigh, which rippled in slow motion. Watching felt like a pay-per-view event of sadomasochism. The Theragun looked powerful, but not too powerful; she remained fully in control. The beauty of this sleek tool of modernity is that its “smart percussive therapy™” merges intention and power.

The feeling of power is no more present than in the grip. The fourth generation Theragun Pro—the upper echelon of Theraguns—is soft to the touch, but firm to hold. It feels consequential; the weight (2.9 lbs or 1.3 kg) is substantial. You get the sensation that you are in physically sufficient shape simply because you can hold it upright. The suede-like skin has enough friction to prevent slippage; hence, the inability to control it is a direct reflection of your own physicality. This is part of the genius design: there are no ambiguities or holes in the narrative. You are in control of this object so long as you are physically and psychologically prepared. The Theragun dissolves the conflict between virtues: control and release. You choose to submit and the device entices you to stay until you get what you came for. Let go, we are told by The Culture (and our therapists). No, wait! Not until I’m done with my traps!

The specific lineage of the device is more slippery to pinpoint. The Theragun is, at its core, a personal massager. But it doesn’t resemble the tenderness of human hands, forearms and elbows. I have received regular, mostly deep tissue massages since 2017 (on pause during the pandemic) and I can confirm that yes, indeed, the Theragun feels exactly like a machine. It recalls the personal massagers I used to grab from bins at swap meets. (The second-hand market is where all personal massagers are destined to end up.) Were it to submit to the 23 and Me, the Theragun would fit squarely into the Venn diagram of personal massagers and vibrators—two devices whose identities are inseparable. Last year, Edith Zimmerman in The Cut likened the G3, an earlier version of the Theragun, to a “sleek, gigantic geometric vibrator.” That era Theragun was much louder—more difficult to use in non-private spaces, like the gym or while lying flat in Delta One. (Still, Zimmerman “unfortunately enjoyed'' using the G3. Her colleague said it resembles a Stand Mixer.) The vibrator thought crossed my mind, too, when an old friend—a former athlete turned avid runner—came by to catch up (distanced, masked), saw the Theragun laying on the table and couldn’t hide his excitement. “Bro,” he exclaimed in his goofy baritone, pointing. My mind cut to the moment in Brown Sugar when Queen Latifah finds Sanaa Lathan’s “massager” in her New York apartment, and teases her for it. My friend didn’t tease: “Those are incredible. I’m so jealous.” I understood why.

The Theragun's promise to “enhance muscle recovery, release stress and tension, and soothe discomfort” fits squarely into the long tradition of massager literature, which has, since the invention of the electromechanical vibrator in the late 19th century, hailed the device as a triumph of science. One set of directions for use of a Swedish vibrator touted that “Vibration has attained great popularity as an adjunct to the toilet as well as in the treatment of many diseases.” An advertisement for the Barker Vibrator in 1906 said that from the benefit of your own home, a personal vibrator “invigorates the nerves and entire system, benefits the complexion and scalp, and banishes soreness.” I’ve seen massagers that can be used to treat head colds, influenza, rheumatism, gout, indigestion, dyspepsia, flatulency, upset stomachs, chest and lung issues. A sex historian writing in the Times last year noted that some were marketed as cure for wrinkles and tuberculosis. Betty Dodson, the radical feminist, used vibrators during her masturbation workshops in the 70s. (The orgasm, she said, was the key to feminist liberation.) I just need my tightly-wound calves not to feel like I haven’t stretched them since middle school.

In our warped times where labor and leisure bleed into each other, the concepts of self-care and punishment are indistinguishable. Pain is the path to healing. The Theragun is for the kind of person who desires a secularized asceticism, but who is open to pleasure that registers just beneath the level of sex. The labels and blogs warn against using the device for sexual stimulation. If you want sexual gratification, have sex. If you desire a good pump, pay the $699.

Compared with other massage guns—Thera-drill, PowerMassager Pro, Pure Wave—the Theragun has the clearest clientele in mind. The box in which it arrives is sleek, white, minimalist like an iPhone or Macbook Pro. The protective carrying case—on the Elite and Pro models—is textbook urbane: charcoal, lightweight, with a strong, black zipper and a handle. The gun itself looks like pleasure with a hint of end of the world. Mine jumped between different hues of black, with a turquoise focal point like the gun I saw on Instagram. It had smooth edges and a black and white force meter. It seems tailor made for the person whose Saturday begins with a survivalist Zoom class and ends in his Tesla drinking a recovery shake after crawling, rolling, and running through the Tough Mudder. The battery pack on the Pro looks strikingly similar to a semi-automatic handgun clip. (It even clicks when locked in.)

The Theragun Pro comes with multiple attachments: super soft, dampener, standard ball, thumb. My favorites are the wedge (for “scraping” and “flushing” the shoulders) and the cone, which looks torturous, but is meant for the feet and hands. The gun doesn’t penetrate the muscles; it bludgeons them. Percussive therapy is a topical treatment. This is made clear in the explanation of how percussive therapy works, through a tripartite system of depth, speed and force. “The key to true deep muscle treatment is a precise amplitude,” the company materials say. By amplitude it means “essentially how far the arm or shaft of the device extends and retracts to reach the body and deliver each percussion.” The gun has a 16 mm amplitude. Intensity is not just a matter of PPMs—the Pro has 5 built-in speeds, more are customizable by app—and amplitude; it’s how hard you press the gun on your body. The adjustable arm, billed as ergonomic, makes it easy to apply the desired pressure from any position. Exactly how much you probe your muscles, therefore, depends on your desired level of emphasis: how much do you want to push?

Here’s a testimonial: Last night, I was lounging on the couch pummeling my left calf, near the ankle. I began at an interval of “1750” and slowly increased my PPMs. The pitch as I went from low to high was a smooth glissando. Once it reached the maximum PPMs, the pitch tapered off and smoothed out, ending somewhere between an electric toothbrush and “we’ve reached our cruising altitude.” Wellness sounds like white noise. I could tell it was working at maximum capacity and could hold this pace indefinitely. The thought of this comforted me, filled me with gratitude.

Then, something unexpected happened: as the percussions fluttered furiously atop the affected area, I felt the focused sensation of pain and soreness diffuse somewhat. It dispersed, but remained present. This is the effect of “circulation.” I knew, moving the gun up and down my calf, that the pain had gone somewhere, but it was difficult to know where exactly.

What happens when intense, acute pain becomes dull and omnipresent? Exhaustion creeps in like fog. The magic of the Theragun is how it spreads sensations throughout the body, allowing the affected site of pain to relax. Feeling better, I pressed and held the power button with my thumb, and the trill of the device muted. My calf felt energized. But I was curious if the pain would return. I waited and waited. Nothing. Then I waited some more. Soon, I gave up. My calf was still tight, but felt better, I told myself. I had pummeled enough for the day.

Ian F. Blair is a writer from Northern California.