From the Streets to the Weight Room: How Alejandro Vivar Rewrote His Story

July 14, 2021

There’s a gym on Bloor Street in Toronto where something unusual is happening. The trainer running the show has done eight and a half years in federal prison, survived being shot five times, and built a fitness brand from scratch — all within a few miles of where he grew up. His name is Alejandro Vivar, and he is one of the most compelling examples of reinvention you’ll find in this city.

In a candid, wide-ranging conversation on the inaugural episode of Ched Talks, hosted by Chedwick Crieghtney for Business Takeout, Vivar pulled no punches about where he came from, what it cost him, and where he’s headed.

Roots at Christie and Bloor

Vivar grew up at the intersection of Christie and Bloor — the same streets where he played baseball, went to school, got shot, and, as he puts it, "did his dirt." Today, he walks those same streets every single day as a new man, with a new perspective.
His path into street life wasn't random. It was, he says, almost inevitable given the environment he was raised in.

"I was always attracted to that hyper-masculinity," he explains. "I grew up around strong males — my uncles, heavy drinkers — and they would say that in order to be a man you need to be strong, you need to have muscles, you need to be a womanizer."

When he was 17 or 18, he found a group of guys who fit right into that mold. By 19, he had his first son — and suddenly, everything became about money. The cocaine trade, he says, was easily accessible on Bloor Street, with older figures offering what looked, to young men with no other roadmap, like opportunity.

"In our minds, we were going to make doctor money right now instead of doing nine years in university and med school."

The Weight of Choices

By his mid-twenties, Vivar was deep into the life. At 24, he faced a murder charge — and after three years and four days of jury deliberation, was acquitted. It was a brush with fate that, rather than humbling him, only amplified his reputation on the streets.

"You beat a murder case on the streets, you're like a god," he says. "Everyone wanted to do business with me. I used that reputation to propel me further."

Four years later, at 27, the other shoe dropped. Police had watched him for 18 months. He had multiple business fronts, was operating at a high level — and then it all came to an end. He was arrested as part of a major operation and sentenced to what became eight and a half years behind bars.

He had two sons by then. Christian, now 14, and Marcus, now 20.

condimentum nis.

Fatherhood Through Prison Glass

One of the most striking parts of Vivar's story is how he describes prison not as the destruction of his family relationships, but, in a strange way, as their foundation.

"I credit prison with the relationship I have with my sons," he says, without a trace of irony. "Every two months we'd get four-day private family visits in a trailer. No phones. We were present. Just think about how many hours a day the average family actually spends in real quality time."

He spoke to his sons a minimum of an hour a day by phone — sometimes two or three hours. He was the "silly, goofy dad" who loved scary stories and jokes. His sons, raised largely by their mother Karina and his father and grandparents, knew who he truly was.

"My kids are someone I could reveal my soft side to. I could be myself with them — as opposed to that world."

It's a distinction Vivar returns to often: the gap between the persona you perform for the world and the person you actually are. He believes many men lose themselves by feeding the persona too long.

Shot Five Times. Still Standing.

After his release, Vivar launched Prison Pump — a penitentiary-inspired boot camp built around bodyweight circuits that can be done anywhere. No equipment needed. He ran successful sessions at Accuracy Park in Toronto, building momentum week after week.

Then, at one of his outdoor sessions, a man joined the class, worked out for half an hour — and opened fire.

"He shot me five times. Twice in the chest, three times through the stomach. I felt bullets flying out my back."

Vivar survived. But the road back was long. For the first few months of recovery, he thought his dream was finished. Then, from a hospital in Sudbury, he instructed a Prison Pump session by cell phone. The Toronto Star covered it. A fundraiser sold 100 tickets. The money went to FEET — a bus service that transports families of incarcerated inmates to visit their loved ones in prison.

He never stopped.

Building the Business

Today, Vivar operates out of a location on Yonge and Bloor, backed by a partnership with Herbalife 24 — the brand's athletic nutrition arm — as well as local entrepreneurs, apparel sponsors, and supplement companies.

His model is deliberately community-focused. He's not chasing bodybuilders or fitness enthusiasts who already know what they're doing.

"We want to hit the 99% of people who don't know about fitness, who don't know the value of incorporating it into their lives. That's the untapped market. That's where the money is."

His staff operates on a canvassing philosophy inspired, of all places, by a line from Donald Trump's The Art of the Deal — the idea of reaching 200 new people per day, through door-to-door introductions across Yonge, Church, and Bloor.

"They need to know who we are," Vivar says simply.

The Retreat

Vivar's most ambitious project yet is a fitness retreat in Niagara wine country — 30 acres, 6,000 square feet, built around a full weekend of early morning jogs, boot camps, mobility workshops, yoga, meditation, hiking, and cycling through vineyards.

Day passes are available at $100. A full weekend with accommodations is $200.

"You have to go outside the city to feel that serenity," he says. "Different air. You can look at the stars. And if you're willing to make that drive, that's already showing your level of commitment."

What Street Life Taught Him About Business

Ask Vivar what his years in the drug trade and in prison prepared him for, and the answer is sharper than you might expect.

"Reading people," he says. "Real recognize real. You can tell from a handshake whether someone is about their business. You can tell by looking someone in the eyes. The street and prison prepared me more for the fitness industry than someone coming out of college with a sports and fitness diploma."

He applies the same no-nonsense framework to leadership. He's tried compassion, understanding, and collaborative management. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't.

"Sometimes the only thing that gets results is laying down the law. I've learned to accept that part of myself. I'm not trying to be a boss — I'm trying to be a leader. But to be a good leader, I have to be my authentic self."

Freedom, Finally

In February of this year, Vivar came off parole — his first moment of genuine freedom since 2007. It's been overwhelming.

"For the first time in my life I actually feel free. And it's overwhelming. There's even a loss of identity. I've been associated with this gangster name for so long. Now — who am I?"

The people from his past world? He still gets the occasional call. But the conversations have nowhere to go.

"We have nothing in common anymore. They don't work out. They're still partying, still in that lifestyle. It's not conducive to the life I'm trying to live now."

A Word for the Men

At its core, this is what Ched Talks — and Alejandro Vivar's story — is really about: the idea that men can take ownership, change direction, and build something real from whatever they've been handed.

"My sons challenge me to change the way I think," Vivar says. "We usually parent the way we were parented. I'm trying to do things differently. I tell my kids — if I ever say 'just do what I say,' I want you to question me. Questioning is good."

He pauses, then grins.

"I painted my toenails with my girl. Aqua green. Don't @ me."

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