Today is REALLY the day.
Longtime readers will recall that my highly anticipated neighborhood gym just opened. I was giddy as a Justin BeeBee fan watching her cell phone being stuck inside his pants, until I saw the treadmills. They’re OK, mind you, just not the state-of-the-art ones (not that anyone knows what “state-of-the-art” is supposed to mean) at the old gym.
But, they’re only a couple of blocks away, and I am lazy by nature, so I joined.
Today is my no-run day, so after doing the paperwork, I wander around to see what it is that weirdos who don’t obsessively run do for a workout.
As it turns out, they have these things called “weights.” Apparently the idea is to lift them up and down until you get tired. Which seems a bit depraved to me. But I tried it, and it wasn’t too bad. I think the Buff Boys were impressed, because when they would look at my 20-pound setting they would smile. I’m well on my way to a barbed-wire bicep tattoo.
They have great stair climbers so I noodle on one for a while. But legs are still feeling the weekend race and climbing seems to defeat the purpose of a day off, so I cut it short. I have no idea how to get down from the stair gizmo after stopping. It strands you about three stories high. They eventually bring over a ladder to rescue me. Make mental note to invest in a small parachute.
And then. Since I had stopped by a couple of days ago and gone on an impassioned rant about how proper treadmills are crucial, I thought I should make at least a running cameo.
I get one on the end. Despite my bitching about how these aren’t very good, neither am I. It works fine. No bells and whistles, but I normally don’t whistle that much while running anyhow.
As luck would have it, I’m next to an old guy. He’s running about the same pace as me, which is annoying. He glances at me occasionally, his face in a perpetual scowl, that “damn kids get off my lawn” look. And he sweats. Lordy, he sweats. Did I mention that the treadmills are packed in pretty tight?
After about a mile, I’m drenched in perspiration. Part mine, part his. I watch him out the corner of my eye as he trudges along in that Old Man Shuffle. I endure his grunting noises and questionable odor. It’s too late to switch TMs because I’m only going a couple miles anyhow.
And then, mercifully, it’s over. As I quit, I notice he quits too. Bastard.
I hate that guy. That’s the last time I’m ever running next to the mirrored wall.
Other than that, a fine gym. A place to call home. I like it.
Thanks for running with me, old guy. See you tomorrow …