Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Fifty-six

I’m back from Margaritaville folks. I was a good girl, limiting myself to only one of said frozen concoctions (see photo evidence). So what if it was a large one, it was only one, I swear. That’s me on the left accompanied by Daughter #1 and Daughter #2, both of legal age in all fifty states. I wanted to save my extraneous calories for more pleasurable things, like the chocolate buffet. I showed considerable restraint that night (see photo evidence). That tiny plate of food, coupled with three multi-course meals a day, plus snacks in between was all the entertainment a foody like me needed to be a happy sailor.

I know I should regret my excesses, but to be honest with you, I don’t. Not in the least. I had fun. I indulged. I over indulged. I gave myself permission to relax and enjoy, and because of that I had a wonderful week of real vacation time. There is nothing like guilt to put the kibosh on a good vacation.

Today is my first day back at the land lubber pit. A little stomach virus set me back a few days, but this morning I donned the stretch pants and rubber soled shoes and off I went. Not even the torrential rains could deter me this morning. I forded flooded roads and took my chances along saturated hillsides poised to slough off and block my passage. I was determined. I was intrepid. This is a gross exaggeration on my part, as it wasn’t really raining when I left the house, but in SoCal you just never know. It could happen.

A few thousand others were as determined as I and I searched the rows of equipment for one of my chosen methods of torture. Lucky me, there was one ¾ rack available. I turned on the iPod and took off on my Magic Carpet Ride scanning the pit for familiar faces. Being a rainy day there were plenty of the ‘keep the membership for days like this’ crowd, a bevy of MOP’s (Mom’s of PreSchoolers), Trance Lady, and a whole new crop of resolutionists. Not a firefighter or hunk in sight. Either I was too early for my usual crowd, or they knew better than to come on a day like this. As I shuffled my feet, more and more people arrived. The personal trainers were doing a booming business signing up new members. Oh goody. Not that I don’t want these peeps to get in shape, I do. I just want them to do it somewhere else.

I’ve got my machine and no one is taking it away from me. I ignore the line of impatient faces along the wall, watching the rows of machines, waiting for someone to either: A) Finish their workout, B) Feel guilty about hogging the machine and quit, or C) Collapse and thereby free up the machine for them. I had the feeling they didn’t really care which of these options netted them the desired result - an unoccupied machine.

I did as the music suggested and closed my eyes and let the sound take me away. Some minutes later the dew was falling harder than the rain outside, which had I admit, started to fall pretty good. I switched my grip from the swinging handle bars to the heart rate monitor. These are handy gadgets if you know how to use them. I understand it is beneficial to get your heart rate up and keep it there for a period of time. I equate this with revving your car engine every once in a while to clean out the gunk building up. Your heart and your engine will run better for the periodic maintenance.

I wrapped my fingers around the sensors and watched the screen for my results. Usually heart rate is measured in beats per minute, and expressed as a numerical value. Zero is bad. I know that much. I wait patiently for my score to appear. Instead of numbers I get fireworks. Little red dot matrix lights flash in starburst sequence. What does this mean, I ask myself? Did my heart explode? Have I won the jackpot? Have blood vessels in my retinas burst? I dart a glance over to the still long line of covetous would-be exercisers. Maybe one of them is going to get a machine sooner rather than later.

Alas, the little red dots settle into a pattern resembling a number. Granted, it is a number I’m pretty sure my heart shouldn’t be beating at, but it’s more reassuring than the starbursts. At least my heart is still beating. I flash a sinister grin at the waiting line. Not yet folks I silently tell them. I’m not done for yet.

By some miracle I’m able to complete my half hour fat burner workout. Thinking it might not be good to just stop cold turkey I head for the lounge chair bikes. I figure allowing my heart rate to come down to normal slowly is better than slamming on the brakes two feet in front of the intersection. I am a cautious driver after all.

Twenty minutes of a slow ride has my heart firing on all cylinders again and I head out. The promised rain is coming down now. Fear not, I made it home where I plan to stay for the remainder of the day. I worked off a bite or two of chocolate mousse today. I’m thinking it’s time for a nice cup of hot chocolate. Care to join me?

Many thanks to John Kay and Rushton Moreve for their lyrics.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill- at Sea

Middle age white women should not wear corn rows. Especially if they have a mullet. This is day five of my seven day cruise and my second trip to the pit. My first trip was on day two when we were on our way to Honduras and Neptune was none too happy about us invading his playground. Seas were rough, seven to twelve foot swells, and walking was a challenge all its own. I promised my faithful readers I would make an appearance at the floating pit, so off I went with my good intentions and an open mind.

Since it was still early in our sea adventure lots of other folks had the same idea, so the pit was well populated. Most of these folks were the dedicated pit types with their well worn workout clothes and agenda. I was lucky to find a ¾ rack unoccupied. Hubby found the one treadmill open and we were set. When the balance and coordination genes were handed out I was at the end of the line and like the kid in the back row of the Kindergarten class who only drew pictures with the black crayon because it was all that was left in the box when it finally made its way to him, I, shall we say, got the vanilla crayon. I can barely walk and sip my margarita at the same time, much less do anything that requires more than simple brain to limb commands.

Let me describe for you this wonder of modern torture, the floating pit. There is a room full of yoga stuff and spin cycles (not to be confused with laundry equipment), and a corner full of free weights. The back row is occupied by those mysterious people powered, padded benches with weights attached, a water fountain and a mini bar full of energy drinks and such as (like any of us need more calories or caffeine). The middle row has treadmills, ¾ racks, bikes and lounge chair bikes. The front row, the one with the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Caribbean Sea has a few ¾ racks and a bunch of treadmills. The only machines with televisions are the ones in front of the windows. My rack is one of these. I’m confused, a frequent occurrence, as to why a person would want to watch television when they could be watching the world go by, but there they are, these personal size screens, strategically placed to block the view.

I climb aboard, program in the easy rider workout, and start peddling. Did I mention the seven to twelve foot seas? This ship is rocking and rolling, and so am I. I hang on for dear life and pedal, darting my head from side to side to see around the television which I have no idea how to turn off, or change the channel. I have my stone dead Ipod and headphones (yep, I forgot to turn it off when I put it away on the plane and we still landed without incident,) but elect not to listen to the audio of the unidentified program playing eighteen inches in front of me. The rack is situated on thick foam pads which add to the rocking motion and will do nothing for my ass when I go flying off this thing, as they are only under the feet, not where I expect to land. An oversight, I’m sure.

If everyone would spend a half hour in the pit every day, the cruise line would go out of business. I’m sure most of their profits come from the sale of alcoholic beverages. I’m not much of a drinker, but I’m swaying like a drunken sailor and trying to get a glimpse of the horizon to orient my inner ear, clutching the handle bars with white knuckles. WEEEEEEEE! Who needs alcohol? Who needs Disneyland?

After a while I get the hang of the thing and my mind begins to wander. That’s when I notice the thump, wreep, wreep, thump coming from the middle row, I think. One of those treadmills sounds like someone clubbing baby seals. To make up for my lack of coordination genes I have a gene that makes me sensitive to screeching sounds. You know the ones, fingernails on blackboards, nail files and emery boards, and baby seals being whacked. Suddenly the pitiful excuse for programming is looking better. I manage to tough it out for twenty five minutes without falling off, or having my skin crawl completely off. I have survived my first floating pit experience.

That brings me to today and trip number two to the pit. The do gooders have either given up, or got up a lot earlier than I did. The pit is only half occupied so I choose a ¾ rack in the middle row where there are no televisions. From my vantage point I have a good view of the water which is somewhat calmer than the last time we came this way. A few of the treadmills in the front row have big' out of order' signs, probably the clubbing baby seals ones, as today’s sound effects are the usual pit variety. Most of my fellow volunteers for torture are C’s and a few C+’s and C-‘s. There is the C in front of me wearing her gold jewelry, capri’s, sailor striped shirt, and flip flops. Yep, flip flops. She’s on the treadmill, walking at a pretty good clip, but not quite fast enough. Every five steps or so she has to take a few little running steps to catch up. There is the woman in her plaid pajama pants and the one that isn’t clear on the concept of leggings being something you wear underneath you outer garments.

There are a few C-25 men running, and then there is the female C with the mullet in corn rows. She and her male companion are moving from one piece of equipment to the other every three minutes or so, clearly not the seasoned pit goers. Luckily she isn’t moving fast enough for all those beads in her hair to clink together or it would sound like a castanet band in here. I suspect this is their first cruise and they have a list of the ships amenities and have decided they will take advantage of all of them while on board. When they leave the pit they will pull out the list, put a big check mark next to the pit, and move on to the next thing on the list. I have reason to suspect it will be the buffet , which I’m sure they have visited more than once.

I have no room to talk. I began my day with waffles with banana syrup, whipped cream, hash browns, bacon, a croissant, and my homage to eating healthy, orange juice. Thirty minutes on the ¾ rack did nothing to negate the effects of that meal, or any of the other similar ones I’ve had this week, but at least I went to the pit and made the effort. All this thinking and writing is making me hungry. I think I’ll see what’s on the buffet and maybe I’ll take a walk around the deck. Or not.