Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Ten

Mondays are such interesting days at the pit. Everybody shows up. It was especially crowded this morning as the weather was as close to winter as L.A. gets, rain and 45 degrees, driving more people indoors for their daily torture routine.

I would have preferred to pull the covers over my head and sleep the day away, but alas, I have a long ‘to do’ list. Daughter #1 and I survey the pit. She heads for the one treadmill that is open and I head for the lounge chair bikes, virtually the only equipment underutilized today. My observations are limited by location, however people watching is something I’m good at, so I manage. There is the usual assortment of folks on the treadmills in front of me, including a C who tips the scales at no less than 350. He’s walking at a reasonable pace and not all that interesting until he pauses the machine and sinks to his knees on the tread. I’m close enough to see he is breathing and is able to wipe his brow so I’m not too concerned. After a few minutes he’s up and walking again. I’m impressed he hasn’t given up. I silently cheer him on.

Trance Lady is on the rack. Her hypnotist mustn’t have been available today because she has trouble maintaining the trance and eventually gives up the rack and morphs into a giant praying mantis, lunging around the pit in dramatic, pointy toed strides. I bet she could do a really spectacular curtsy. She stalks her way through the free weights and around to the stair thing-a-ma-jiggies.

M.M. is in the pit. I’ve decided he has A.D.D. He flits from one thing to the next, never spending more than a few minutes on any one task. Sprints on the treadmill, chin ups, push ups, stretches, … I’ve lost track of him. Damn.

I take up my usual spot on the stair climbing thingy, determined to do better today. I’m inspired by the firefighters on the racks in front of me. How do I know they are firefighters? Besides the t-shirts (not the generic tourist variety) there is the way they look. How many C’s have that look? Fit. Lean. Not an ounce of fat on them. Serious hair cut. Determined face. They work out as if their life and yours depends on it, and it does. What’s not to like about that?

I’m worried about the guy next to me – not a fire fighter. If he keeps sweating at that rate he’s going to short out that thing. Despite having a hand towel, sweat is pooling on the stairs and dripping down the side of the machine. I hope the wiring is properly insulated or we may have a serious problem here. Are these things plugged into GFI’s? Luckily there are fire fighters nearby.

Daughter #1 has had enough, and so have I. Trance Lady is still climbing stairs so it’s safe to go to the locker room. In a few minutes we’re out into the cold rain, heading home. I’ve climbed to the Top of the Rock (70 floors to the top of Rockefeller Center). That’s for all the 30 Rock fans. I’ve biked 5 miles at level 9. It’s a good day.

Goal this week – Climb to the lower observation deck on the Empire State Building – 86 floors- in one day.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Nine

Help me if you can, I'm feeling down. Well, not so much down, as pooped. I slept like a log and woke up feeling like said log. Needless to say, I didn’t much want to go to the pit, but I’m resolved to come out the winner in this power struggle, so Daughter #1 and I head out.

And I do appreciate you being round. No, not the shape, though I do appreciate that there are folks at the pit who are that shape, and thus make me feel somewhat smug about my own shape which borders more on barrel than round. I do appreciate Daughter #1 being my companion even though she isn’t any happier about going there today than I am. We’ve already covered the misery loves company angle.

Help me, get my feet back on the ground. Never is this more meaningful than when I’ve been on the stair thing-a-ma-jiggy for twenty minutes or so. My legs feel more like hot pokers than muscle and bone and I’m not sure I can get down on my own, short of falling off and this doesn’t seem like a pleasant option.

Won't you please, please help me. By the sixtieth floor this is no longer an idle plea. I figure I’ve climbed the equivalent of the Empire State Building four times this week. When I look at it this way I’m inclined to believe I need help of an entirely different nature, if you get my drift.

When I was younger, so much younger than today, I never needed anybody's help in any way. Ahh, the arrogance of youth! The pit is full of C-25-30’s today. None of them appear to be in need of any help. At that age I didn’t either, or so I believed. Aging brings wisdom in so many ways, one of which is to ask for help when you need it, and lend a helping hand when asked. Now if that C-20 bench pressing 180 lbs. would just ask for my help. I’m thinking I could count reps (which I’m already doing), or maybe CPR.

But now these days are gone, I'm not so self assured, Now I find I've changed my mind and opened up the doors. I’m not sure at what point it happened, but it did. The blind optimism of youth gave way to the cautious optimism of adulthood. I’m not sure I can do this whole exercise/fitness routine, but I’m willing to give it a try. At any rate, I’m trying to keep an open mind about it.

And now my life has changed in oh so many ways. If there is one thing I am certain about in life, it’s that you never know what’s coming next. Pardon if I don’t elaborate. Lack of oxygen can do that to you.

My independence seems to vanish in the haze. I think some people confuse individualism with independence. I would never give up my individuality, but I’ve long since given up my personal independence. I see this as a good thing. I depend on a lot of folks. It’s nice to have family and friends to lean. They can be counted on to bolster my sagging self esteem and see me through the occasional crisis. I’m having one of those occasional crises right now. I really need to figure out where they keep the oxygen tank in this place.

But every now and then I feel so insecure. Make that unstable, in more ways than one. I present this blog as exhibit A. I must be getting to the top of the building where the air is thin. Why else would all this crap be filling my head?

I know that I just need you like I've never done before. Where is B.P.G. (Bench Press Guy)? I need help here. I bet he could give me a hand getting off this thing. I’d settle for Daughter #1 telling me she’s had enough and is ready to go. I refuse to give in first. This is my individuality showing. I am bested daily in this place, but I refuse give in before the kid does.

Help, I need somebody,
Help, not just anybody,
Help, you know I need someone, help.

No sign of M.M. or the Bronze God today. Luckily there was B.P.G. and Beatles to get me through. Many thanks to John Lennon for letting me borrow his lyrics. I made it up sixty stories and five miles on the lounge chair bike. Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Eight

I’m waiting for something catastrophic to happen. Something must be in the works, as I have managed to make it to the pit for the eighth day in a row. Each day I have done a little more than the day before and I’m still functioning. Surely this cannot keep up.

Today I ‘m not at my best, having been out late the previous evening I would rather just pull the covers over my head and nap the day away. However, I’m made of sterner stuff than that. Daughter #1 is in much the same boat, but we still drag our unwilling back sides into the car and head to the pit.

I take up my usual spot in the crow’s nest, a.k.a., the stair thing-a-ma-jig where I can see what is going on in the pit. Today there isn’t much to comment on. The place is hopping, but the mix of people are as a whole, uninteresting. I’ve got my iPod back in working order so I tune in and tune out the world as I try to climb the Empire State Building. The dew is falling pretty good and something is taking my breath away, but once again it isn’t anything like what the song is talking about. What a shame.

I slow enough to pour some water down my gaping mouth and check out the place, just in case someone more interesting has come in. Some lady has brought a bunch of tweenie girls with her and they, for some reason I cannot fathom, are running amuck in the place. They are jumping on various pieces of equipment, punching buttons, and in general making a nuisance of themselves. I wonder who could be the owner of these brats and watch with interest until one of them makes contact with their parental unit. Guilty party is revealed.

I’m all for children being physically fit, but these girls are too small for this equipment and even if they were physically capable of using it, they would need supervision. Oh well, as long as they stay away from me I can’t worry about them. I have enough of my own problems, mainly breathing and maintaining my grip on the handrails so I don’t commit suicide on this thing. Maybe if I land on one of them it will break my fall. It’s something to ponder.

The C-27 on the skyscraper next door is about forty floors above me and climbing at a rate King Kong would envy. I’m reminded of the tortoise and the hare story. In my case, it’s more the elephant and the gazelle, but still I figure I’ve already beat this kid at one thing. I’ve made it at least 27 years further than he has and that’s one race he won’t overtake me in. Someone finally corrals the tweenies and sends clueless parent and her charges on their way. I’m sucking wind and ready to take the elevator down.

Usually I’d plop my considerable back side into a lounge chair bike about now, but Daughter #1 is on a treadmill and lucky her, there is an empty one next door, so off I go. I don’t run. It’s a personal rule of mine. Someone told me once that if I really tried it I would learn to like it. That person was wrong. I did try it. I signed up for a college class misnamed, Conditioning. It consisted of three days a week of cross country running, followed by as many sit ups as you could do in ten minutes.

Since my grade depended on how fast I ran the route and how many times I could fold myself in the middle, I gave it my all. I managed a B+ in the class and haven’t run since. I didn’t even run when I was thirty feet from the biggest bear in New Jersey. Now, if said bear had made a move toward me I’m pretty sure I would have waved the moratorium on running, but since it didn’t, I still have a perfect record going and see no reason to ruin it.

After twenty minutes walking as if a Krispy Kreme were dangling on a string in front of me I’ve put in a mile at a slight incline. I’m done, so is Daughter #1. We head to the locker room for our purses. I’ve climbed sixty-three floors and walked a mile. Not bad for an old lady.
We round the corner, headed to the tinted glass doors that promise freedom when they part and in walks M.M. Daughter #1 and I look at each other. Damn. Our timing is really off. Maybe we’ll have better luck tomorrow.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Seven

Friday is senior citizen day at the pit. I kid you not. I started out on the stair-thing-a-ma-jiggy again, right next to the wheezing C+25. Again I wonder why the concrete floor isn’t padded and scan the perimeter for the defibrillator and oxygen. Surely they are somewhere nearby, not that I’m going to use them, but I might NEED them sometime soon. Note to self – ask someone where they are, just in case. I should ask about the room where they keep the donuts while I’m at it.

I turn on my iPod and instead of music I get a nasty little note telling me to plug it in to a power source. The battery is dead. Dead. Dead. No music today. What am I to do? There is always TV, so I look for the cute little box that is supposed to be there so I can connect to the audio. There is no box. NO BOX. This is the only available stair thing-a-ma-jiggy and now I have no audio of any kind. Oh well. I can make do. I focus on the pit, trying to ignore the wheezing next door.

Daughter #1 is on the rack in the row in front of me, wearing her new shoes and doing fine. I’m glad the new shoes are working out, then it hits me - I hope she remembers the combination to our lock. How is this related? Let me explain. We share a locker and a lock as we don’t come with a lot of baggage each day. The combination to our lock was written in permanent marker on the inside tongue of her shoe. She is wearing her new shoes. No combination. I climb a few floors hoping she has memorized the combination in the six days we’ve been coming. I know I haven’t, but she’s an economist and numbers are easy for her.

Just in case she hasn’t, I contemplate how we are getting home. Our car key is in that locker, along with our cell phones. If we can use a phone we can call hubby and he can come get us, but I don’t know his cell phone # or office phone number. That’s what speed dial is for, isn’t it? We could call information, or we can call Daughter #2 at school 3000 miles away and have her call him. I know her phone number, and she has his on speed dial.

Half the people here today are C+25, or more. Some are leaving me in the dust, some are not. After climbing half way up the Empire State Building I head for the lounge chair bikes. You would think these would be full, given the average age today, but no. I’m the only one using them. I plug in to Regis and Kelly, only it’s Christian Slater and Kelly today and kick the bike up to level 10. I’ll show the Geritol crowd how it’s done! I think about telling you the story about the Christian Slater Memorial Closet at our house, but decide I’ll save that for another time.

There are two C+25 women on the treadmills and they capture my attention. They are walking at a snail’s pace and I wonder why they are here and not at the mall. Surely the mall would be more interesting. They have on their Velcro walking shoes and the one on the right is wearing a mint green sweat suit from Nordstrom and a cable knit sweater. These were meant to give the appearance of fitness wear, not actually be fitness wear. Her companion is dressed more appropriately in a serviceable sweat suit. I notice how small this woman is, frail actually. Her clothes hang off of her, as if once she filled them out, but due to declining health that is no longer the case. I suspect she is here as part of her prescribed physical therapy.

They chat as they stroll together. It becomes clear Nordstrom lady is there because of her friend, to keep her company. They complete their walk and leave, and I am reminded how special friends can be.

Daughter #1 joins me. She’s ready to go and so am I. Luckily she remembers the combination and we are soon on our way. I’ve climbed 62 floors and pedaled 5 miles. No one needed oxygen, including me. It’s a good day.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Six

For those of you who don’t know me, I’m a Southerner by birth. My mother’s family has roots deep in the rich red soil of East Texas and can follow those roots all the way back to when Texas was a Republic. Thanks to my fabulous sister-in-law who did all the research, I can apply for membership into the Daughters of the Republic, and as soon as I fill out all the forms she sent, and copy all the documents, it will be official.

True Southern women are raised with certain values and live within a set of rules, the likes of which do not exist north of the Mason-Dixon Line or West of the invisible line that runs roughly half way between Dallas and Ft. Worth. You see, Dallas is in the South, Ft. Worth is in the West, or Southwest if you insist.

Some of these rules Southern women live by are well known outside the above listed parameters, such as Rule #1 – Do not wear white after Labor Day or prior to Memorial Day. No self respecting Southern woman would dare to break this rule. This has evolved over the years to a less strict rule involving white shoes and white purses, as too many women were dying of heat stroke in September and October.

Rule #2 – Do not air your dirty laundry in public. This is a metaphor. Think Scarlet O’Hara. Scarlet would rather dig root vegetables out of the soil with her bare hands, or use the parlor drapes to make herself a new dress than let her friends and neighbors think all was not well at Tara.

You ask, what does this have to do with the pit,er,gym? I present the not widely recognized, Rule #3 – Cross your legs at the ankle. This is followed closely, and related to, Rule #4 – Do not display certain body parts to anyone prior to said person signing their name on the line labeled ‘groom’ on your marriage license. Still confused? Let me explain.

There are lots of activities to choose from at the pit. One of those is some sort of exercise involving rubber balls of various sizes. Strangely enough, the area set aside for this activity is just inside the front door and visible from most of the electric equipment as well as any passersby via the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the parking lot. I have yet to see a male participating in this activity, which brings me back to Rules #3 and #4. I think from this we can extrapolate – Do not place 36” rubber ball between your legs and present your hoo-haw to anyone within fifty yards.

I am no prude. I write Romance novels when I’m not people watching at the pit. However, why a woman would choose to drive to a public place, don form fitting apparel, lie on the floor with or without a gaily colored rubber ball and spread their legs for all to see without being PAID to do it, is beyond me and well outside even the broadest interpretation of Rule #3, and a clear violation of Rule #4.

Now you say, “Nearly every high school girl is in violation of Rule #4.” This may be true, and I may have been guilty of it myself, once or twice, but in the off chance Daughter #1 or Daughter #2 is reading this, let me state that I have never contemplated violating Rule #4, nor do I suggest they contemplate it either.

Let me point out- Rule #4 also applies to locker rooms, especially to locker rooms.

I started my torture session on the stair thing-a-ma-jig. I like the view from up there. This is the same reason I like to snow ski – the view is best from the top of the mountain. Anyway, I opt for the default workout, twenty minutes. I’ve had success at level 4, and after surveying the pit I decide their isn’t much of interest so I kick it up to level 5. After ten minutes I’m ready to rethink the whole religion thing and wondering if I’m about to find out if there really is a spirit in the sky. I back it down to level 3 for a few minutes and contemplate just how hard the concrete floor behind me is. Would it be too much to ask for mats, or better yet those big inflated mattresses stunt people use? I’d be willing to chip in another dollar a month to see some changes in the place.

I finish off the last five minutes at level 4 and seek out my favorite lounge chair with pedals attached. Daughter #1 is there after some time on the rack. She’s having some trouble with shin splints, something that plagued her all through high school and college softball and still is worrisome, so she’s mellowing out on a bike for a while. I take a spin around the block, several blocks actually before we call it quits for the day.

M.M. from yesterday arrived while we were on the bikes and I’m tempted to hang around and watch for a while, but alas, we might be risking bodily injury to stay longer. I’m beginning to dread the locker room, but we left the car key locked up in there, so we must retrieve it. M.M walks by and I’m tempted to follow, but Daughter #1 is eager to leave.

Back to Rule #4. Trance Lady is in the locker room and lucky us, has a locker adjacent to ours. While we are fishing out our purses she proceeds to peel off layers until there are no more layers to peel. I did not need to see this. Trance Lady bounces off, buck naked to the showers (I assume). In the hallway Daughter #1 says, “I don’t know how people can do that.” She doesn’t have to elaborate, I understand perfectly. “Me either,” I say, my heart swelling with pride. Even raised in California, Daughter #1 knows Rule #4, at least when it comes to locker rooms. I don’t want to know anymore.

We step into the bright sunshine. I‘ve climbed a sixty story building and rode five miles, and my parenting skills have been validated. It’s a good day.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Five

I can’t think of a good enough excuse today, so Daughter #1 and I once again pass through the tinted glass doors into the pit. Lots of people must be reading my blog because all the stair climbing machines are taken and I’m forced to choose another method of torture today. Daughter #1 heads for the rack, aka, the dreaded elliptical where all four limbs must go in different directions at the same time. I’m still rhythmically challenged, so I choose a two limb elliptical in the row behind her. It takes me a minute or so to set the incline to flatlander so I won’t become a flat-liner anytime soon.

I start my musical accompaniment with the last track of the Pride and Prejudice sound track while I scout for something to take my mind off what I’m doing. My vantage point isn’t great from here, but the place is packed and I have no shortage of entertainment. Sadly, M.M. from yesterday isn’t there, nor is the bronzed god from day one. However there is Trance Lady. Let me explain. She’s on the rack (see previous definition) and the only explanation I can come up with is hypnosis. Arms and legs are going, feet are lifting off the pedals causing her to rock side to side, and her head is bobbing in rhythm, eyes closed, mouth open, left and down, right and up.

I move on to I had the time of my life, a flat out lie, and I’ve never felt this way before, a true statement but not for the reasons the song implies. I have to concentrate to keep from falling off this thing so I close my eyes, opening them between songs to check out my surroundings. If someone beefs it, I want to know. Not that it would be humorous in any way to see someone take a spill, but they would laugh if I beefed it, so I don’t want to miss any opportunities. Everyone is still upright, including Trance Lady who is still going strong.

After fifteen minutes I’m beginning to wonder if someone shouldn’t check on her, you know, tap her on the shoulder, or snap their fingers to bring her out of her trance. Did her hypnotist get her started then wander off to Jack in the Box and forget to come back and snap her out of it? Did said hypnotist implant a suggestion that she wake upon hearing a certain cue, say, laughter when she finally beefs it? Oh well. I’ve progressed to walking on broken glass and drowning in black water and now I’m thinking when every little bit of hope is gone, sad songs say so much. I’m suffering enough to write it down, that’s for sure. I think I might cry. No one would notice, the dew is falling pretty good by now anyway.

I’m twenty minutes into this and Trance Lady stops. She opens her eyes, looks around, and….. starts going in reverse! Same rhythm, same speed, same head and foot motion. Thirty minutes in and I’m in a purple haze and call it quits. Trance Lady is still in reverse mode, still no hypnotist in sight. I decide I’ve earned a sit down, so off to the easy chair bikes for me. Daughter #1 has moved to a treadmill and when my vision clears I check out the weight lifting section. There isn’t much there today, just a C wearing a NASA t-shirt. He’s not bad, but I have doubts about his astronaut status. More likely he works at JPL and designs robots to explore the solar system. Hmph.

It’s time for something soothing, so I find the classics I’ve downloaded and set the bike on level 9 and take a spin around the block, figuratively speaking of course. No need to be in a hurry, so I pedal at a nice slow pace. It’s not like I’m in a race with the C+25 next to me who could power Las Vegas if she hooked her bike to the power grid.

Another ten minutes and Daughter #1 wimps out. We head to the locker room where for once I don’t have to lament the absence of TOWELS. I’ve survived another day. No one beefed it, including me. Life is good.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Four

One word- towel. I can’t emphasize this enough. If one is going to shower at the gym, one should bring a TOWEL. I’m not talking about an ordinary length of terry cloth, but one long enough to encompass all of you. Trust me when I tell you, no one wants to see what your towel doesn’t cover, unless you are the bronzed god. It’s highly unlikely I will encounter him in the women’s locker room however much I would appreciate that very thing. I hereby make a pact. I will not subject my fellow locker room users to my unclothed self if they will do the same for me.

Enough said. I think you get the picture.

I parted company with Daughter #1 right off. She headed for the rack, I mean elliptical, and I headed for the stair climbing thing-a-ma-jig. I set it on level four and scanned the room for something interesting to look at. As these machines are taller than the others their row acts as a room divider between the moving machinery and the stationary or human powered equipment. This, along with my elevated height allows me an unobstructed view of the entire place. Sorry to report there is very little to see. The pit is inhabited primarily by the stay at home mom crowd and what appears to be a high school softball team. I’m not sure why they are here in the middle of a school day, but what do I know? My girls always had those pesky academic classes to attend in the morning. Softball was the last class of the day, or after school.

I’ve made it up a few flights of stairs when I begin to wonder if I’ve lost my mind. I’m a big fan of elevators; I think I mentioned that previously. I’m also a big fan of escalators and moving sidewalks. Why take the stairs when a perfectly good people mover is available? Why walk when the sidewalk will do the work for you? Every muscle from my waist down is on slow burn now and I begin to dream about moving sidewalks. The best are to be found in large airports like Minneapolis-St. Paul where to get from gate F-16 to A-14 is about a five mile hike. Try doing this in half an hour. If you know how to use the moving sidewalks it’s almost possible to make your connecting flight, thereby saving you a ten hour layover.

If you aren’t in a rush, standing in one spot and allowing the sidewalk to carry you along is a great way to go. You can text, dig for your boarding pass, or read a book because you don’t have to watch where you’re going. These are one way, so no oncoming traffic to worry about. However, if you are about to miss your connection there is the express lane. To make the best use of this lane, first secure all loose articles of clothing as you would for any high speed amusement park ride. Secure all luggage to your front or back as the walkway isn’t wide enough to pass the standing in one place folks with a bag hanging from your shoulder.

When you are prepared, take off at a sprint in the express lane. This is what it feels like to be the six million dollar man, to fly on your own feet. As these wonders of man must come to an end somewhere you need to prepare yourself to be launched off the end of the sidewalk onto terra firma. If you are truly skilled only one foot will hit the ground and your momentum will carry you onto the next sidewalk. This is an acquired skill and not to be attempted by the novice traveler.

I’m up to the fifth or sixth floor when inspiration walks in. I notice him as he claims a treadmill a few rows ahead of me. I’m thinking Matthew McConaughey look alike-ish. Close enough. My vision is going along with my ability to control my muscles, so he’s probably a toad in actuality. Anyway, this guy looks like he should be running on the beach with his sun bleached hair and long, lanky physique. He’s carrying a gallon water jug and wearing a sweatshirt. I focus on him as he pulls his sweatshirt over his head and begins his stretching exercises.
No one else I’ve seen stretches before they get on any of the machinery. I’m sure this is a no-no, but who cares? This guy is stretching and I’ve forgotten about my legs and moving sidewalks. I can work through the pain if I have the right focus and this is the right focus.

M.M. gets down to business, running sprints on the treadmill. Yep, sprints. Run flat out for two minutes, rest, run again. Each time he hops off he plants his feet on the side rails and runs a hand through his unruly hair. Uh huh! With such scenery I could climb a skyscraper. Sometime later I am dismayed to find I have climbed a sky scraper, a moderate one at least, 44 floors. My twenty minute workout on the stairs is over. I bid M.M. goodbye, silently thanking him for the diversion and go in search of another method of slow torture.

After riding the lounge chair bike around the block a few times I seek out Daughter #1. There is an open treadmill next door, so I join her for a walk. I’ve just spied M.M. again at the weights. He’s lifting some giant hunks of metal and thanks to more of those wonderful mirrors I can watch from several different angles. Daughter #1 taps me on the shoulder. Am I ready to go? Hell no. However, she clearly has pushed her C-27 body harder than I have pushed mine, so I call it a day.

This brings me full circle to paragraph one. Towels. Believe me, after watching M.M. for a while the scene in the locker room was not something I wanted to see. Talk about Debbie Downer, well, you get the picture.

Tally for the day: 44 floors, 5miles on the bike, one more walking. I’m done for. Hopefully M.M. will be back tomorrow.