Honestly, I’m not crazy
My head swims curious clouds
Never wanna come down
— Brent Babb
We’re at the gym. It’s not so much fun to run outside these days, with high temps and packs of wild hyenas roaming the streets. So we’ve entered the Summer of Treadmill.
I snuck in earlier in the day and got in three miles while Mo was working, so I’m mostly along for the ride. Mo’s just running two so I figure I can just walk for a while. But then it hits me that I haven’t done any weights in a while. A while being somewhere around the mid-’70s. In an effort to kill time and avoid having to watch the Astros get killed, I do the Macho Strut over to the weights.
The great thing about circuit training is that nobody can see that I’m grimacing mightily as I bench press 30 pounds. Twice. Apparently writing with a pencil at work does not develop the upper body quite as much as I had hoped.
Since Mo’s only going a couple of miles, I figure I’ll just poke around until she’s done. I do my extensive ab work (a sit-up), back extensions (which actually feel pretty good), arm curls (which do not) and the three leg stations, just because I enjoy hearing the crunching sounds in my knees.
As I go through more and more machines, becoming more and more aware that running is good for only two or three of the 7,900 muscles in the human body, it hits me. I’ve been lifting a lot longer than I expected. And Mo’s still going strong.
I limp over to her treadmill and start crying. She’s finishing her fourth mile and still looks strong, but takes pity and stops somewhere in Southern Utah. Between the virtual trail run feature on the TM and Dead Hot on the iPod, she would’ve been there all night if I didn’t have the muscle structure of a less muscular Pee-Wee Herman. I know you are, but what am I?
Mo may be onto something with the Dead Hot playlist though. Obscure Tempe band perfect for running. God bless Brent Babb. There’s just aren’t enough songs about Noam Chomsky in the world.
I limp home. It’s now 1:30 a.m. and every muscle in my body aches. Mo is sleeping happily and I’m watching the Golden Girls buy condoms.
Life’s not fair. Maybe wild hyenas aren’t that bad …