Fat Lady on a Treadmill - The Megapit

It’s been a month since I returned to SoCal, and what a month it has been. Many of you know, shortly after my last blog post, hubby had an event and spent several days in the hospital. After every test known to science, the pronounced him fit and sent him home. Needless to say, neither one of us went to the pit for a few days.

Once hubby was home and rested up, he decided it was time to get back to his daily workout routine. I decided it was in my best interest to go with him, just in case he decided to have another event. We headed over to the Megapit, formerly the VPit, and since it was a weekday afternoon, we procured a parking spot within walking distance of the front door. This was my first peek inside the place since the remodel and I have to say, it’s something to see. I stood there like a tourist, admiring the biggest, highest, longest, deepest, landmark- only this is a gym. Not usually something to gawk at, but in this case, it is.

I’ve never seen so many torture devices in one place, or so many scantily clad people. I figured if all the silicone and Botox in the place didn’t do hubby in, then he was good to go. For the first time ever, I didn’t lock my cell phone in a locker. I kept it with me, just in case. Even though everyone else in the place had a phone, I didn’t trust them. I’m certain they had their plastic surgeons and agents on speed-dial, but doubted they could string three numbers together in an emergency.

I could see the entire thing. Hubby collapses. A crowd gathers. Fingers fly over touch screens. I rush to hubby’s side, grateful someone has the presence of mind to call the first responders. As I try to revive hubby I hear the conversations around me. “Quick, call the news, call someone. I can get some face-time out of this if you get right on it!”

Fortunately, hubby did just fine and no one needed to call for emergency help, of any variety.

Since then, we’ve returned to our normal routine. I go to the pit in the morning, hubby goes in the afternoon, and my cell phone is once again in the locker.

I’ve not been back to the Megapit since that day. Let me tell you why. For one, all the new cardio torture devices have TV screens on them. I don’t watch TV while I’m torturing myself. I watch people, or work through plot problems. I don’t need video in my face to do this.

Second reason – In order to cram as many treadmills and racks in as possible, they reduced the number of resistance weight machines. These are now tucked into a small alcove that once housed the free weights. The walls are mirrored, and some of the machines I use daily are on the back row –facing the mirror. Not that I care about the mirror placement, but it’s a strong pull for the vain, and there are plenty who fall into that category at the Megapit. I sauntered by and both (yes, only two now) of the machines were occupied by male C-30’s who seemed to be using them as strategically positioned park benches. I chose another machine and waited for them to leave. They didn’t. They also didn’t use the machines. Nope, they were too busy admiring themselves in the mirror (really, it wasn’t that good of a show), and I suspect, checking out the female backsides reflected there.

I moved on to the rack where I could keep an eye on hubby, just in case you know. He finished his run. I cut short my torture session and followed him to the alcove. My chosen machines were still occupied by the same vain voyeurs. Peeved, I went in search of a leg press machine. I found a leg press machine – yes one. They’d stashed it in the new addition, along with the gazillion new free weights. (Park benches would have been cheaper and just as useful) I was the only woman in the new area, except maybe in the spinning room where they have more bikes than the Tour de France. Anyway, undaunted by the bro’s text messaging from the weight benches, I did my leg torture and left. Hubby was still in the alcove, and my favorite machines were still doing duty as Peeping Tom perches.

I gave up. I now spend my pit time across town where the vain population is much smaller and I can do my usual routine without having to have a fly swatter to remove the pests. It isn’t without its share of interesting characters, and I do have some observations from there, but I’ll save those for another time.

Thanks to all who shared their concerns over hubby’s health. Until next time…

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - This Isn't the Pocono's Toto

Today was the day I pledged to get back into my routine. That means a bit of breakfast, and then off to the pit. The drive alone was reason enough to stay at home, but I put on my brave face and took the urban assault vehicle (UAV) on the road. In this town, if you drive anything smaller than a tank you’re a Lilliputian in the land of Gulliver’s. I prefer being a Gulliver.

It turns out that my recent trips to The Big Apple also served to keep my driving skills honed. I arrived at the pit without incident, only to find the parking lot completely full – of Trophy Wife vehicles. You know the ones. They’re new, mostly foreign, except for the Escalades, and there isn’t a subtle thing about them. Chrome wheels, sun-roofs, leather seats, onboard computers that do everything but order for you at the drive-thru. I spotted a few with those cute little leaping kitty hood ornaments too. They have regular appointments at the auto-spa so the sweet young thing driving them won’t be embarrassed by a speck of dust on her transportation when she pulls up in front of the brow bar or tanning salon. They wouldn’t be caught dead with a petrified French fry under the passenger seat.

I’m not sure whose idea it was to open the largest pit in the state of California (not kidding, it’s a fact) in a small strip mall with a limited number of parking spots, but I can’t imagine they thought it through. I circled the lot once, just to make sure I hadn’t missed something. I hadn’t.

Hubby and daughter #1 have been to this pit since it became a monster and swallowed up a couple of adjoining businesses, but clearly, they haven’t been in the morning. I don’t care how nice the new machines are, or how many of them they’ve crammed into the space. I’m not going to hang around in the parking lot until someone gets tired of posing and decides to go home, or realizes she’s going to be late for her bikini waxing. I’m pretty certain I was over dressed for the place anyway. I’d actually covered my cleavage. I’m not sure they would have let me past the front desk.

I steered my UAV out to the eight-lane divided, wanna-be-freeway and headed across the valley to the other pit, the step-child pit, the one they didn’t remodel while I was away. Traffic was lighter on the other side of the valley and it wasn’t necessary to use my aggressive driving skills. A few minutes later I turned into the parking lot of the regular-people pit, and had my choice of several spots. I spotted a few Bro-trucks, but they were outnumbered by the mini-vans and aging sedans. The UAV fit right in with its layer of dust and crumpled straw wrappers in the center console. A couple of C+20 women wearing flood pants and Velcro shoes winched themselves out of a Chevy a few rows over. I’d found my people.

This was confirmed when I sailed past check-in without raising suspicion. I’d been there many times before, but it was still a bit overwhelming. The entire Pocono Pit would have fit inside the Spinning classroom with room to spare. There were more machines to choose from than I’d seen in months. Just deciding where to start was a challenge. Since it had been a long while since I’d done my usual routine, and clearly that needed to change given my expanded options, I decided to keep my first day back simple.

Memory kicked in and I found the locker room, right where it had been the last time I was there. Since the Pocono Pit had cubbies, not locker room, even this was going to take some getting used to. I won’t go into details, but I will mention one word, one very important word. Towels.

I hurried out to the floor, found a half-rack on the second floor and programmed it to the –kill me now- setting. While the machine proceeded to do as asked, I checked out the place. The ratio of men to women was somewhere around 2:1. I was okay with that. Especially since the majority of the men weren’t half bad to look at. I looked my fill, at least until my eyesight began to blur. The place began to empty out. I wondered if I was emitting an offensive odor or perhaps they knew something I didn’t, like the place was about to be invaded by Trophy Wives. I decided there wasn’t anything I could do about either one, so I finished the programmed workout.

I thought about spending a few minutes with the resistance equipment. None of it was seeing a lot of use, but it had already been a long day. I made a mental note of where my favorites were and headed for the locker room. On the way, I went past the Spin class. That answered the question as to where everyone had gone. I made note of the time so I could show up tomorrow after the class began. It would be almost like being back at the Pocono Pit where I had the place more or less to myself.

In the locker room, I extracted the scrap of paper with my combination on it from my clever hiding place behind the music storage device strapped to my arm. Unfortunately, the two C+20’s were still there. They’d traded their flood pants for towels, on their way to swimsuits, I think. I don’t really want to know. I checked the time. Maybe I should push my arrival back a few more minutes tomorrow, just to be safe.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - End of Summer

It’s time to head west before the leaves and snow start falling around here. It’s been an interesting few months of solitude interspersed with periods of chaos. There have been times of great joy and pride as well as times of great sadness. I’ve been to a class reunion and a graduation. I’ve moved both daughters to their respective grad schools, attended RWA ’10 in Orlando, hosted friends and relatives, buried a family member, finished a manuscript, and sold my first book. And that’s just the big stuff.

Since March I’ve been in thirteen states, most of them more than once. I’ve driven up Mt. Washington, toured two Civil War battlegrounds, Jefferson’s Poplar Forest, the NASCAR Hall of Fame, the Statue of Liberty, and a major Florida amusement park. I even managed to squeeze in a Broadway show. The one thing I haven’t done is let moss grow under my feet!

Fall is approaching. I see it in the playful deer in my yard, the crisp morning air, and the softening mid-day light. Then of course there are the leaves beginning to blanket the driveway and floating like an interactive art exhibit on the surface of the pool.

Later this week I’ll rejoin hubby in SoCal, where the temperature still hovers over the century mark, and the seasons consist of Hot and Hotter.

I’m going to miss a lot of things about the East Coast. One of those will be my Pocono Pit. I’ll miss being greeted by name even before I swipe my membership card. I’ll miss Friday mornings when I have the place all to myself. I’m going to miss the ever changing view from the window- the steady stream of vehicles on the busy street as well as pulling through burger joint across the way. I’ll miss seeing the guy in the school bus yellow Mustang convertible who buzzes through the drive-thru every morning. I’m going to miss watching the fat families sitting in their mini-vans stuffing their faces with paper wrapped hunks of fat and cholesterol.

I’m going to miss the Pocono Pony, the local bus service, with their trolley style busses filled with curious, gawking passengers. I’ll miss the tourists with their kayaks and SUV’s piled high with outdoor gear. Life won’t be the same without the guys working out in their jeans and work boots or the bevy of regulars I’ve come to recognize as kindred spirits. I’ll miss the juvenile joke of the day posted at the check-in counter. I’ll even miss the smell of chicken and potatoes frying at the Cluck U next door.

I hope to return in a few months to the Pocono Pit. It’s been good to me. I haven’t lost any pounds, but I have rearranged a few things. Thanks to the resistance routine I adopted there I can buy my jeans a size smaller than I did last spring.

I’ve worked through dozens of plot problems while climbing virtual hills on the rack and people watching out the small bank of windows. The way the white clapboard houses on the hill behind the burger joint pop against the steel-gray of a brewing summer storm will be with me for a long time.

What I’m going to miss most is the daily drive to the pit. My trek takes me through the Delaware Water Gap National Recreation Area, twice. It’s a lovely, winding road that follows the route the river has carved out of the tree covered granite mountains. It’s so lovely it’s easy to forget you’re on an Interstate Highway. If I’m in the mood to see more, there’s always my Plan B route that follows the river for several miles through the dense hardwood forest. It’s a nice way to start each day and reason in itself to go to the pit.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - The View Through Frosted Window Panes

I’m on the road again, back in Orlando for a Writer’s Conference. Being a masochist at heart, I am compelled to find a pit if possible and indulge in a bit of self-inflicted torture. Since the hotel is charging me what they call a resort fee which is an additional charge tacked onto the daily rate for things that used to be included, I thought it would be good to get some use out of those amenities. I dragged lazy ass out of bed this morning and headed to the pit. Just getting there would be considered a workout for most people, but I’m not most people and I made it without breaking a sweat or running out of oxygen.

It’s bigger than some hotel pits, and truthfully, not much smaller than the Pocono Pit I go to when I’m at home in New Jersey. The place is a little heavy on the moving sidewalks and has a few weight machines, lounge chair bikes, and of course, a few racks. I checked in at the desk where they wanted to see my room key and made me sign my name. I think they must get a lot of imposter hotel guests who drive out to the middle of nowhere, pay to park, and try to sneak into their ‘fitness center’. It’s the best explanation I can come up with for the high security measures.

Once vetted by the security detail, I helped myself to a dew rag and stepped inside. Holy Smoley. Who knew Romance writers were such masochists? The moving sidewalks were all occupied, as were the racks. My choices came down to a lounge chair bike or the weight machines which, no surprise, stood in a row like relics from a medieval dungeon. No stranger to these sinister leather and metal monsters, I went to work on my batwings and thunder thighs. I looked around the place, hoping Nora Roberts would be there. I knew she was in the hotel and would be giving a speech later. I thought perhaps she would need to work off some public speaking anxiety. I was fully prepared to offer myself as a guinea pig if she needed to rehearse. Who was I kidding? I’m sure her suite has its own torture devices that she pays someone to use for her.

Did I mention this is Florida? And it’s summer? The sign on the wall indicated there was a sauna. No shit. Really? Then I realized they were talking about a whole other room off in the corner. It may be redundant, but at least this time of year it must be cheap to maintain. I wiped the dew out of my eyes and pushed and pulled thinking eventually someone would pass out and topple off one of the racks and I could get in my aerobic workout too. The same people were still on the racks and didn’t show any signs of relinquishing them. I’m not entirely sure they were still alive. It could have been that they died and rigor mortis had frozen their hands around the handlebars. Don’t laugh, it’s possible.

Anyway, I snagged a lounge chair bike and programmed in a nice ride. I figured about three miles would do it. I peddled away, going nowhere at a rapid clip. Condensation frosted the window across from me, making the summer scene beyond appear to be something all together different. I love winter days when the windows are rimmed with a band of frost and the rest of the glass is obscured by opaque ice crystals. Everything beyond is magically transformed. This was much the same. Inside, the room was as steamy as if we’d been baking holiday goodies only it didn’t smell nearly so nice. Outside, viewed through this magical window, a fantasy world awaited.

The ducks waddling on the lawn became fat Canadian geese. The white sand beach around the hotel’s gator pond became a blanket of snow creeping to the water’s edge. The azure sky dulled to gray through the frosted filter. The palm trees… well, there’s no explaining their presence so I just pretended they weren’t there. Hey, what did you expect? This is as good as it gets folks. If you want high-minded literature, you’re reading the wrong blog.

I left the pit, energized (yeah, right), ready to embrace the world of writing, but first there was the Nora speech. We gathered in a ballroom roughly the size of a football field to consume chicken parts that didn’t resemble any chickens I’ve ever seen, and to hear Her Royal Highness of Romance shower magical words of wisdom on us. I snagged a table somewhere around the fifty yard line with a decent view of the end zone. The remaining chairs filled quickly with first timers, all fresh faced and excited. As this was my second conference I was positively smug, after all, I had twice as much experience as anyone at the table.

Nora took the end zone stage. If you score 6 figures every time you cross the line into the end zone, then she’s crossed it more times than anyone, and owns the zone. We can’t help but be a bit green eyed, but we hang on every word. Not just me and the newbies, but everyone in the cavernous room. By the time she wraps up her speech we all feel as if we too can win the publishing lottery. Nora has told us it is so. We have been enlightened. We have seen that even the great one has struggled, not recently, but once upon a time, long, long ago, and so there is hope for us. As if through a magic glass I can see the future. I too stand in the end zone spouting words of wisdom for eager and envious dreamers.

Okay, so the crystal ball is a bit fogged up. What can I say? Soon I’ll be back at home and trekking to the Pocono Pit where the windows aren’t frosted and there is nothing remotely fantastical about the burger joint across the street. This magical interlude will be nothing but a memory then. Let me have my dreams, they keep me going.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - The Big Questions

On a recent trip to the home improvement store to pick up some pool supplies, I couldn’t help but notice my Cashier had removed her natural eyebrows and replaced them with two amazingly symmetrical thin black lines. Placed well above where they should have been; they were remarkably well done, if not comical. I had to wonder if there is a template one uses to do this sort of thing as I couldn’t draw one line that well on a piece of paper, let alone two mirror image ones on my face, and do it on a daily basis. I suppose they could have been tattoos, but they really did appear to be surface lines. Before you condemn me for being an insensitive lout, no, she didn’t suffer from some hair loss malady, and even if she did, there are other ways, more natural ways, to replace missing eyebrows.

As she scanned my purchases and completed the sale, I wondered what made her think wax pencil eyebrows were a good idea. Did someone, presumably a friend, tell her it looked good? Did she see this in a fashion magazine?

I’ve asked myself the- what was I thinking- question a time or two. There were guitar lessons when I was a tweeny. They lasted about a month before, with shredded fingers; I had to admit I have no rhythm and apparently can’t count to eight. There was the time I rode on the handlebars of my brother’s bicycle, telling him when and where to turn while he powered us through the streets- with his eyes closed. We ended up in a ditch along with a few broken soda bottles, lucky to be alive. Apparently, in addition to my lack of counting skills, I can’t distinguish between left and right. I bought a Chevette once. I don’t think I need to elaborate on that one.

Ever since I signed up for the pit I’ve asked myself the big question on a daily basis. Sometimes I ask it several times a day along with the toddler’s favorite question – why? Why do I put myself through the torture – and yes, after almost 9 months it is still torture. I know there are people out there who report a feeling akin to a drug induced high when they push their bodies via exercise. I am not one of those people. My rhythm lacking, directionally challenged body apparently has never seen an endorphin. The only things I feel while exercising are pain, exhaustion, and shortness of breath. The overwhelming feeling I get when I cease to punish myself is relief. No buzz, no high, unless you count the dizziness associated with the sudden increase of oxygen flow to my brain. I have to admit that’s a pretty good feeling.

Every morning I have to invent a new reason to get out of bed and drive to the pit. I’ve bribed myself with rewards both monetary and edible. I’ve promised myself lazy days in the future, shopping trips, and dinners out. The one thing that most compels me to get out of the house is the promise of a day or two when I don’t have to go. It works something like this. If I go Monday thru Friday I can have Saturday and Sunday off. If I skip a day during the week, I have to make it up on the weekend. This isn’t unlike going to school, or a day job, only there isn’t a pay check and my report card is that I my jeans still fit.

The pit is on the honor system. No one is going to call my house looking for me if I don’t show up. This is ostensibly because I am an adult, and of course the pit gets their money whether I show up or not, so what do they care if my jeans don’t fit. It’s up to me to motivate myself and to come up with the answers to the questions. I’ve got several answers for the why. Most of them have to do with extending my years on this celestial orb, though when I’m sucking in oxygen and trying to make my noodle legs hold me up I have to wonder if the extra years are worth the effort. As for the -what was I thinking- question. I’m still thinking about that one.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Friends and Asses

It’s been nearly two weeks since the treadmill threw me into a ditch, figuratively speaking. Most of you know by now that I don’t actually use a treadmill except on those rare occasions when I seek out the one downstairs. For those occasions I plead temporary insanity.

When I found myself at the bottom of the ditch I was momentarily stunned, but jumped into action making plans and going forth to do what had to be done. At one point I looked up and there spread along the rim of the ditch stood an army of friends and family with outstretched hands. Thanks to them I clawed my way out and once again stand on high ground. What those special people did for me cannot be quantified. The pulled me up, dusted me off, and stood by me until I could stand again on my own. In essence, they put me back on the figurative treadmill.

Now it’s up to me to get back to my regular routines, including the pit which is of course a kind of ditch all its own. After a week of Stress (yes, with a capital s), travel, erratic eating, and no pit, I feel like I’m back at the beginning. Intellectually I know it’s not true. I’ve come a long way from where I began, but a few minutes into my usual routine (The Whoop Ass one) I realized it just wasn’t going to happen. I backed off. My Lazy Ass, that’s the one I’ve been trying to get rid of, urged me to stop all together and go home. My Stubborn Ass argued that the only way to get back to where I’d been was to put the classic Caddie in reverse and backtrack a ways.

Stubborn Ass went on to say that perhaps I could get out the map and try a different road to get back to where I had been. Lazy Ass screamed in my ear that I really didn’t want to do this anyway (she had a point) so why not park the Caddie under a shade tree for a while. I stood there a few minutes trying to decide which ass to listen to (an all too frequent dilemma). That’s when Smart Ass spoke up. She set me straight. First she told Lazy Ass to take a hike (she needed one anyway), then she told Stubborn Ass that going backwards never got anyone anywhere they wanted to be and there wasn’t anything wrong with the road I was on.

Smart Ass went on to tell me that a few days of reduced activity at the pit was better than no activity at all and in a few days the Caddie would be running smooth again on all cylinders. She was right of course. It’s been a few days since the Asses argued. I’ve gone back to my routine, backing off a little here and there but sticking to the same basic regime. It worked before so I have no reason to think it won’t work again. Each day has been a little easier than the one before and I’m confident I’ll be opening another can of Whoop Ass soon.

Thanks to all the friends and family whose hands I greedily clutched over the last few weeks. I bent a few ears and wet a few shoulders too and never heard a complaint. Thanks for pulling me out of the ditch and getting me back on the treadmill. My heart is full and with the help of Smart Ass I hope it will continue to beat strong and true for many years to come.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Some Cans Should Remain Unopened

Have you ever opened a can of Whoop Ass? On yourself?

I have to confess. For the last few weeks I’ve been coasting. Yeah, I’ve been going to the pit everyday minus the road trip days, and those have been way too many of late. By coasting, I mean I haven’t pushed myself to do more. I’ve been content with the status quo. Same number of reps here, same program there. Maybe a little dew falling, but not too much. Shave a few reps off to save time (as if I have something better to do), skip that machine because I don’t want to wait for the guy in jeans to finish doing his thing. Coasting. I’d put the Classic Caddie in neutral and hadn’t even noticed.

After another extended road trip complete with a no holds barred food fest I knew I had to change things. I’d become too complacent and laziness beckoned. I could see it, hovering there, calling my name. I’d become bored with my workout. I had mastered the art of just getting by. Sure, my state of laziness now is light years away from my pre-pit days. I patted myself on the back. Yep, at least I put my transmission in gear, all be it a low gear. Today I decided it was time to shift gears.

Instead of the fat burner program on the ¾ rack, and in honor of last weekend’s road trip to the summit of Mt. Washington, I selected the hills program and in so doing opened a big ‘ole can of Whoop Ass. I made it up the first hill, congratulated myself on the accomplishment and started up the second one with more confidence than was warranted. My lungs struggled to suck oxygen out of the thinned air atop the imaginary mountain. My legs protested the climb. I hung onto the walking sticks with white knuckles. Why…? My brain screamed at me. Because you have too much junk in the trunk, I answered myself.

I longed to pull over and empty the trunk, but I knew the only way to lighten the load was to keep pushing it up the hills. One by one I climbed them; each one a bigger challenge than the one before. Jerry Lee Lewis sang about great thighs of fire. I knew exactly what he was talking about. At the bottom of each hill I coasted, sucking in as much oxygen rich air as I could, preparing for the next mini-mountain. They came. They went. I trudged onward, determined to reach the summit and plant my victory flag.

Minutes crept by. As I approached each hill I argued with my body.

You can do it.

No I can’t.

Yes you can.

Half an hour later I reached the summit and planted my dew soaked flag. I’d opened the can of Whoop Ass and survived.

A year ago I purchased a can of seasoned turnip greens. They’ve been on the pantry shelf ever since. I’ve picked up that can countless times, given it a once over and set it aside. As a Southern woman I’ve eaten my share of fresh turnip greens and never found them particularly appetizing. What made me think a tin can would improve them I can’t say, but there it sits, waiting to be opened.

I took a chance today opening the can of Whoop Ass. I’m glad I did. I’m glad I pushed myself toward a higher goal. It feels good to once again be working for something and I’m looking forward to heading back to the pit tomorrow and giving those hills another try. Maybe I’ll even add a few reps to the resistance weights. The can of turnip greens will remain on the shelf, a reminder that some cans should remain unopened. I think I’ll pick up a fresh can of Whoop Ass though, just in case boredom rears its ugly head again. Next time I won’t be afraid to open it.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - The Fashionista

I’ve never claimed to be a fashionista. Consider that a disclaimer for the rest of this piece. The pit is no place for fashion, no matter what the L.A. crowd thinks, but still there are a few fashion no-no’s even someone as clueless as me can recognize. For example, suspenders. Not just any suspenders but –if I drop a lead brick in my britches they will not fall down-suspenders. I do love suspenders on a hot guy wearing a crisp dress shirt and trousers, or with a tuxedo. I can’t help but think about what a creative woman could do with those thin strips of elastic and a willing, or not so willing, man. Of course even those suspenders shouldn’t be worn to the pit. (I personally wouldn’t mind however.) From a safety standpoint I’m not sure any kind of suspender is a good idea, especially the heavy duty, I could slingshot to the moon with these suckers, kind. Thus I confess I was a tad bit worried about the C+20 wearing his white t-shirt, sans-a-belt slacks w/NASA approved rocket propulsion suspenders, and Velcro sneakers. He started out on the lounge chair bike which gave me no cause to worry except I did look around for the defibrillator just in case. (Once a girl scout, always a girl scout.) I didn’t truly worry until he took to the weight resistance machines. What if one of those things got caught? Mr. C+20 could be orbiting before anyone could stop him. Maybe I’m a worry wart, but it made me nervous and truly ruined my pit experience that day. I hope he doesn’t come back anytime soon, at least while I’m there. I might take a crash course in defibrillator use, but I am not yanking some old dude out of the ceiling tiles.

Fashion no-no number 2 – Denim. First there was the C+5 guy with the denim shorts and denim biker jacket with torn out sleeves. We aren’t talking denim cut-off shorts or even trendy hang off your skinny ass, my crotch is halfway to my knees, shorts. We’re talking twenty years out of fashion denim shorts… with a leather belt. It would have been a good Halloween get up, but seeing as how it was a cold day in April I don’t think he was in costume. I admired his black socks and sneakers too. They added a lot to the look, but didn’t make it any more appropriate for the pit. Next came the C wearing jeans, long sleeved shirt and work boots. Oh yeah, I can’t forget the leather belt thick enough to double as a tow rope for an eighteen wheeler stuck in a Mississippi swamp. It’s true you don’t have to invest in expensive workout clothes to walk on a treadmill every now and then, but my fat thighs hurt just watching this guy. He didn’t come back the next day so I figured he learned first-hand what happens when you rub two sticks together.

Fashion no-no number 3 – Knits. I’m not sure why anyone would want to exercise with a knit cap on their head, but several times a week this C-20 woman comes in wearing one and never takes it off. I don’t guess there is anything wrong with it, but I have to wonder what the thought process behind this is. In L.A. do-rags are popular for the bro’s but the women tend more toward fashion headbands than knit caps. This however is nothing compared to the woman wearing the cable knit sweater and stretch pants. It was a perfectly lovely sweater. As a matter of fact I have one almost exactly like it. It is not, repeat, NOT, workout wear. Granted, it was cold outside, but the heat was on inside and once I got the classic Caddie warmed up I was wishing they would turn the heat down some. How this woman ran on the treadmill and made a circuit of the resistance machines dressed like Nanook of the North I have no idea.

Fashion no-no number 4 – Improper footwear. If your shoes have leather laces, steel toes, or are sold at places like Tractor Supply and Army Surplus then they are not designed for the pit. If your shoes lace up past your ankles, they are not designed for the pit. If you could patch your all-terrain tire with the sole of your shoes, they are not designed for the pit. Not that I really care. How these people choose to abuse their feet doesn’t affect me unless they have a blow out on the rack or treadmill and a flying piece of rubber hits me upside the head. I’m just sayin’ maybe these people should rethink their footwear choices before someone gets hurt.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - The Classic Caddie

My 1956 Caddie is a classic, but after several days of travel and way too much fun, the ole girl was feeling her age. I have to admit I’d neglected her care. Regional culinary specialties seduced me and being the weakling I am, I let them. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t regret a single bite. How can you regret indulging when faced with some of the best Tex-mex and barbeque on the planet? Passing it up wasn’t an option. As it turns out, pushing the ole girl to the limit day after day and night after night proved to be my downfall. Surrounded by faces from the past my brain made the connection and spent the weekend telling the Caddie she was still a teenager. The Caddie did her best to keep up.

I returned to the pit ready to put the Caddie through her paces. I hoisted her onto the ¾ rack and programmed the torture device for a half hour drive. The Caddie’s wheels spun. Her shock absorbers protested every bump and pothole. Instead of a well oiled machine I found myself at the wheel of a rusted out wreck. Five minutes into the drive the Caddie groaned and made for the shoulder. I knew she had more in her so I sucked more air through the intake manifold. The ole girl revved up a notch.

We came up on the second hill and the junk in the trunk threatened to drag the Caddie back down. The timer said twenty minutes to go. I shifted into low gear and shoved the junk up and over the hill. We coasted down the other side. I turned on the air conditioner (the onboard fan) and reveled at the sensation of riding with the top down. I knew the worst was yet to come. I’ve traveled this road several times. There are more hills to traverse, higher and longer than the first ones.

Fifteen minutes in – the halfway point- and the Caddie began to overheat. We came to a flat spot in the road and I poured some cold water into the radiator. She responded immediately and I thought we just might make it to our destination. Another hill, the mother of all hills loomed on the horizon. I poured more water in and tucked the junk in the trunk in tighter. My hands gripped the steering wheel like a vise. I coaxed the ole girl up the grade. Halfway up the Caddie began to lurch. I needed to do something drastic or we were going to end up grill first in the ditch.

I punched the accelerator. The fuel injectors opened wide. The intake manifold sucked oxygen out of the air. The Caddie fired on all cylinders at once catapulting us to the top of the hill. She shuddered and backfired. I eased up on the pedal, shifted into neutral, and let her coast downhill. I wiped dew off the windshield and poured more water into the radiator.

The ole girl purred. For a while there I feared my vintage Caddie had turned into a Ford (Fix or Repair Daily – or Found on the Road Dead) while I was out of town. The ride home was smooth. The ole girl preened the whole way. She had every right to be proud. She’d been in the garage way too long but true to her classic status she’d performed admirably. I patted her on her well padded seat and promised not to neglect her again.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Six Days on the Road

I started out on this road trip intending to be home on the fourth day, a whirlwind trip down south to see Daughter #2, then home and back to my usual routine. As with all good intentions, they are subject to change. A phone call from Daughter #1 a few hours after I’d hit the road extended my trip by two days and over six hundred miles. Not that I’m complaining, but I’d packed enough clothes for three days with a few incidentals and accidentals. Those are the clothes you take in case the weather dude was wrong, you end up eating someplace where the food doesn’t come in a paper wrapper, and of course some clothes to wear to the hotel pit.

I’ve been trying really hard to eat well and make it to the pit six out of seven days each week so I knew the trip wasn’t going to be easy. Sitting on your ass for hours a day behind your only heavy lifting consisting of a sweaty fast food paper cup does not make for healthy living. I have a new respect for long haul truck drivers. I honestly don’t know how they do it. It’s a wonder more people aren’t killed on the nation’s freeways each year by truck drivers whose hearts give out from the kind of food they eat every day.

Truly, I have no excuse for eating like a truck driver. My vehicle is of a standard size and I can pull into any parking lot, anywhere so my eating choices are greatly expanded. It was my decision to either take advantage of this freedom and eat as well as one can reasonably expect to do on the road, or chuck it all and enjoy myself. I decided on a modified approach to the problem, after all I was well south of the Mason-Dixon Line where food is serious business.

Day one wasn’t so bad. I managed to eat reasonably well. I declined the French fries with my chicken wrap and opted for the unsweetened iced tea. Of course the waitress looked at me like I was an alien from another planet. I was a conundrum and clearly she was confused. I spoke with a Texas accent, acceptable in this part of the country, but I ordered like a Yankee. That’s when I got the phone call. Perhaps I should have gotten the sweet tea after all, because I clearly wasn’t thinking straight when I agreed to extend my trip and drive even deeper into the South on a recon mission.

The further South I went the worse my decisions became. Let me just say that I don’t think anyone can travel through the Southern United States and not succumb to the food there. I found myself eating in places called Biscuitville and Kountry Kookin. I couldn’t pass a Cracker Barrel without drooling. I decided early on that I would limit my intake of artery paste (they call this gravy in the South) to once a day. This is not easy to do. Everything on the menu comes with artery paste on it, or at the very least offered on the side. You get used to words like smothered, drizzled, and topped. These are code words meaning there is a sauce involved. Everything has one of these words in the description. Asking to have something plain is a tip off that you aren’t from around there and suddenly you notice everyone is giving your table a wide berth. Everyone in the restaurant eyes you as if they’re afraid you may infect them with your Yankee-ism.

Frying is an art form in the South. Everything on the menu can be ordered fried. This includes vegetables and dessert. Some things proudly declare this in the name as in Chicken Fried Steak and Fried Tomatoes. Other things are more subtle, okra for example. I don’t think this green vegetable can be found north of Mason-Dixon, but is a staple in any good southern kitchen. Being a southerner myself I know there are only three ways to serve okra, pickled, stewed in gumbo, or fried, but southern menus only list okra. It’s not until you see it piled on your plate that you understand they were referring to fried okra on the menu.

On the fourth day I made the error of asking simply for tea. Here you don’t have to specify iced, it’s assumed and unless you specify otherwise you will receive sweet tea. I realized my mistake as soon as the waiter delivered the half gallon glass and there was no little box of sweetener packets on the table. I took a sip which confirmed my suspicions. I had long since decided that I didn’t want misery for company on the remainder of my trip, so I drank the syrupy brew. There’s nothing quite like the combination of caffeine and corn syrup (yep, this is what makes sweet tea sweet) to get your motor running.

It was downhill (pardon the pun) from then on. I gave in to temptation. I ordered fried stuff, smothered stuff and gave up my quest to eat healthy. I reasoned that when I returned home I would resume my low fat, low sugar, no artery paste lifestyle so what would be the harm in indulging my taste buds for a few days. By day six there wasn’t a trucker on the road with more cholesterol in his blood than me. With just one more road meal ahead of me I swung my four wheeler into the parking lot of a burger joint. Up until then I’d avoided the national chains. I had eaten one burger, but it was grilled at the ball field and I’d turned down the potato chips and washed it down with a diet cola. I was due a fast food orgy.

The smell of grease and charred meat filled the air. It was intoxicating. I lost my head. My numb backside pushed for the salad menu, but I remembered a news segment about the hidden calories in fast food salads, so I gave in and ordered the cheeseburger and fries. Yep, fries. The counter lady asked me what kind of drink (they filled them for you). I eyed the tank of sweet tea. In a rare moment of sanity I ordered a diet cola, not that it was going to make much of a difference in the grand scheme of things, but it eased my conscience.

Salt is cheap. It must be because it is used liberally at that place. I was revved on fat and salt and caffeine so I ordered a cup of frozen chocolate dairy product to go and headed for the freeway. I was less than two short hours from home and fueled up. With sweaty paper fast food cup in hand I put the pedal to the metal, so to speak and headed north.

As I wove in and out of the line of eighteen wheelers I shoveled spoonfuls of cold chocolate soft serve into my mouth. I cranked up the radio to hear what was now my theme song. I breezed like silver lightning around another truck grinding his way up the next hill while I sang…. Six days on the road and I’m gonna make it home tonight.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - The Primate Exhibit

The other day at the pit I was trying to push my vintage Cadillac just a little further on the ¾ rack, rocking out to Steppenwolf’s Born to Be Wild, and trying to ignore the family across the street in the minivan stuffing their faces with greasy burgers and fries. The street between the pit and the fast food place isn’t all that busy usually, but on occasion traffic will backup from the traffic signal as far as the pit. This was one of those times.

I was seriously thinking of chucking the whole workout in favor of a jog ( a big move for me because as noted previously – I don’t run, that includes jogging) across the street to pick up another spare tire and some junk for my trunk when I noticed the couple in the Bubba truck stopped between me and the object of my obsession. Movement in the cab drew my attention away from the promise of marginally cooked mystery meat to the occupants of said Bubba truck.

RayBob pointed a gnarled finger in my general direction. His mouth moved. “Lookie thar BobbieRae. That’s one of them orange e tangs.”

BobbieRae leaned forward and craned her steel wool topped head to see what RayBob was talking about. “Well I’ll be. I didn’t know we had a zoo.”

At that point I had no doubt I resembled an orangutan at the San Diego Zoo. The dew was falling pretty good and heaven only knew what my hair was doing. I looked around for something to throw at the glass like any self respecting primate. The only thing handy was my water bottle and I needed that, so I considered a few bird like hand gestures instead. I quickly dismissed that option as conduct unbefitting a southern bred woman and instead wiggled my fingers in a friendly manner.

“Well don’t that beat all BobbieRae; they done went and trained that one.”

“How did they learn that poor dumb animal to do that?”

“I seen it on the tell-e-vision. They give ‘em a treat ever time they do something right.”

Pavlov had nothing on me. Dangle a doughnut in front of me and I’d do just about anything. In fact, after failing to locate the secret donut stash at a former pit I didn’t want to make the same mistake at this one, so when I signed up I asked the kid at the front desk where they hid the doughnuts. He looked me over and said, “We don’t have a secret doughnut stash, Ma’am.” His vocabulary choices told me I was old, his perusal told me I didn’t have any business eating more doughnuts. Certain there weren’t any pastries to be had I’d turned my attentions and conditioned responses to the burger joint across the street. I wiped a spot of drool off my chin as the woman in the minivan took another giant bite of greasy burger and popped a starch stick in her mouth.

“We should bring the chillum back. They’d like the zoo.”

“Maybe next week BobbieRae. We got to get over to the dump before all the good stuff is gone.”

I waved goodbye and good riddance to my new friends when the light changed. Maybe they’ll bring the chillum back next week. I’ll have to learn some new tricks before they do.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Battle of the Dollar Menus

It’s the war of the dollar menus. I just noticed today – okay, so I’m a little slow- that the burger joint across the street has large window cling signs advertising their dollar menu and the pit has their version of the dollar menu up in their window, the grand opening, join for a dollar sign. From the looks of things, the burger joint is winning. There’s a steady flow of vehicles through their parking lot and drive through, while this Monday morning it’s me and one other slightly insane person at the pit. As Elvis sang Jailhouse Rock I heard the bars clank shut behind me and I began to wonder if I’d made the right choice with my dollar.

Of course, there’s nothing quite like spending a half hour or more on the half rack while contemplating a giant photo of a hamburger, to motivate you. The view from the cardio machines includes a busy street, a large discount store, and the aforementioned burger joint. Not much to look at, giant burger photo aside.

I love a good burger, which is part of the reason I now have to spend so much time at the pit, and that picture is tempting. Fantasizing about the burger isn’t going to help me any, but I can’t help myself. I can almost taste its flame broiled goodness as I shuffle my feet to the beat pounding through my headset. Yeah, I can have one. I’d only have to ride this devil’s machine for another hour or two to work it off. Of course I’d want the fries too, so make that three or four hours. That pretty much killed my desire for the burger in the pretty picture.

Twice, a few decades ago, I birthed a couple of beautiful daughters. My body hasn’t been the same since. Not that I’m complaining, I’m just saying things are different. Things spread out. Things shift. Things that were once nice and tight are no longer. (Get your mind out of the gutter; I’m talking about abdominal muscles here) Then along came the long awaited, much anticipated, liberating menopause, and along with it, more changes. Fat from those burgers and fries used to go one place and now it goes someplace different and is refusing to budge.

In an effort to evict this unwanted fat I’ve taken to using the weight resistance machines at the pit. I’m thinking if the fat won’t go away maybe I can at least tone the muscles underneath and do a better job of sucking it in. I know, that’s a lousy cop out, but it’s a motivating one.

I’ve also come to the conclusion that the only living thing that should have bat wings is a bat. I really don’t want to worry about slapping myself silly if I raise my arms above my head. I want to wear a sleeveless blouse and not worry about the wind catching my sails and dragging me off course. I want to hail a cab in NYC and not slap some tourist in the face. This is another of those motivating images.

I’ve become rather fond of the gut crunching machines. They’re much more fun than doing sit ups on the hard floor and it’s become sort of a game to switch the pin and twist the knob and see how far I can push those weights, and myself. I’m taking it slow- a few repetitions then a break, then a few more. I concentrate on the machines that promise to work the core muscles, abdominals and back, and the arms of course. I don’t want to look like a lumberjack, but that possibility is so far in the future I can’t even see it.

As I attempted to shove my 1956 Cadillac uphill one more time, the burger across the street looked better and better. I dug my heels in and shoved as hard as I could as the Cadillac threatened to flatten me on the downhill side. I sucked it up and gave the land yacht a heave ho and back up the hill it went. I had visions of a spectacular crash at the bottom of the hill. I decided then that burger wasn’t worth the buck, the pain, or the humiliation of having to call a tow truck to haul my classic chassis to the repair shop when the carburetor fails or the fuel line becomes too clogged to function. I eased the Cadillac down the hill and parked it safely at the curb. In the battle of the dollar menus I think I made the right choice. I shoved it into gear again and tootled on home to a nice chicken salad.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Rakes and Tasty Cakes

Today was day one at the new pit. Yep, another new one. This one is in Pennsylvania. No kidding. It’s actually just over the river and through the woods from my Western New Jersey home. There isn’t a lot of commerce in my neck of the woods, just a truck stop and the highway robbery version of the golden arches so I usually cross the river (the same one Washington crossed) to do my shopping and such.

Much to my delight a new pit began operation a few weeks ago across the parking lot from my favorite discount department store. This is more than convenient since even in dew soaked workout clothes I’m probably better dressed than most of the other shoppers there. You know the web site devoted to covert photos of shoppers seen at the big box store? I think most of those were taken at this location. No kidding. So, back to my story… This new pit calls itself an express pit. It’s small with only a dozen or so cardio machines, about the same number of resistance machines and a small free weight area. No body builders need apply.

The place was crowded today. My arrival brought the total of peeps working out to five. My fellow torture enthusiasts were all C’s give or take a year or two. A couple were on the lounge chair bikes and the others were contemplating the breakfast croissants at the BK across the street while sauntering along on the treadmills. I glanced at the place wistfully too before I came to my senses. All the cardio machines have their own mini televisions, but I much prefer my own audio mix so I plugged in and tuned out on a ¾ rack.

Thought #1 – Kriminy this is work!

Thought #2 – Don’t I need to be someplace else about right now?

Thought #3 - I think our ancestors had the right idea. They didn’t worry so much about gaining weight. The life they lived was much different than ours. Sugar and meat were luxuries, not necessities. I’m not saying I think we should go back to chopping wood, washing clothes in a pot or a river, growing and raising our own food. I’m just saying, they might have been on to something. Machines do much of our work for us now freeing us to sit long hours interacting with yet more machines to the point we have invented machines to help us exercise off the weight we’ve gained as a result of all this ‘progress’.

The last few days I’ve come to appreciate good old fashioned hand tools as a fitness regime. After a day and a half of raking leaves with a human powered – that would be me- lawn rake, I can tell you there isn’t a machine in the pit that can do what that one simple tool can do for you. Every muscle in my body has been put to the test and I can say – failed. One by one my muscles revolted. Not being one to give up easily I worked through the pain and managed to relocate most of the leaves, but not before I gained a healthy respect for that four letter word – work.

Thought #4 – So what the heck am I doing here? Since it’s raining outside the answer is rather obvious, but I did try to rationalize my way out the door before I finished the half hour pre-programmed whoop a** I’d chosen. I’m sure I won’t get here every day, but I’m going to give it a good try. As much as I dislike moving my body around this much I have to admit I never would have been able to relocate all those leaves in such a short period of time if I hadn’t been torturing myself so often over the last few months. I had hoped the climb up our driveway would be easier too, but I tried it and it’s still a killer of a hill. Nothing short of moving the house to the bottom will change that, so I guess I better stick with the pit a while longer.

I finished the whooping, thanks to a little old fashioned rock and roll, and staggered to my cubby. No lockers here, just cubbies. Just like being in Kindergarten again. I gave a thought to trying out one of the fancy resistance machines then I remembered the one in the garage, and the side yard still covered in leaves, and decided I’d let the old fashioned lawn rake give me another workout when the rain stops. I’ll save the fancy machines for days when I’ve nothing better to do than sit on the deck and watch the raptors searching for a meal. Maybe I should try plugging into my music while I rake leaves. On second thought – no. I’m afraid a bear might think I resemble a Tasty Cake, so I’ll just listen to the sounds of the forest. Better a chicken than a Tasty Cake.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Spring Break

I’ve taken to the road for a week and as usual I’ve been looking for excuses to skip my workouts. My hotel boasted a fitness center on its website, and true enough it has one. What they didn’t say was it’s the size of my closet back home and has exactly three cardio machines- a treadmill, an ½ rack, and a lounge chair bike. I can make do, but it’s tempting to use the modest size as an excuse. Believe me; I’ve thought of more excuses than there are gators in Florida. Some were legitimate, some not so much. I did deserve a break after a cross country trip that along with the beginning of daylight savings time took four of my twenty-four hours away, but that was the only one that had a chance of keeping me from the pit.

I started out my first day with a biscuit smothered in artery paste and a glass of orange juice that everyone knows is the antidote for cholesterol, so I really didn’t need to go to the pit. Lunch was a modest salad I followed up with a bag of peanut M&M’s. Everyone knows peanuts are a good source of protein, so I had nothing to feel bad about there.

Rationalization is something I do very well, but alas, I sucked it up and went to the mini pit. Luckily my fellow transients aren’t much into physical fitness and I had the closet to myself. This had a few unexpected advantages. I cranked the air conditioning down to arctic blast and selected what I wanted to watch on the television. No arguing, no wishing I could change the channel. I was in complete control. I considered locking the door from the inside just in case someone else was into self inflicted torture, but I stuffed the remote control out of sight instead.

In a sorry attempt to make the room look twice its size some moron covered one whole wall with floor to ceiling mirrors. Only a decorator who’s never seen the inside of a pit would do an asinine thing like that. No one wants to see what they look like while they’re working out, especially me. I understand certain dance type classes benefit from mirrors so participants can see and emulate the instructor, but this is a closet. There’s hardly enough room to walk around the machines much less do any sort of dance or yoga moves. So there I was, dewing all over the place, trying to concentrate on a good soap opera but the scary reflection in the mirror kept drawing me back. Egads! There was the breakfast biscuit, the bag of peanuts and a whole host of other dietary indiscretions staring me in the face. It was a kind of scared straight moment. I vowed then and there to give up my wicked ways and eat nothing but lettuce and broccoli from then on.

A half hour later I crawled back to my room, changed into a clean tent and picked up Daughter #2. Of course she was hungry. This little town doesn’t have much to choose from in the way of lettuce and broccoli laden menus so we chose a Mexican restaurant. My cheese enchiladas came with a pile of shredded lettuce with a dollop of salsa on top which I shoved to the side of the plate. It was still there when the nice busboy took it away. My resolve lasted a whole four hours, maybe less. I guess I need to go back to the mini-pit and take another look. Maybe I should put a big mirror in front of me at the table so I could watch myself eat. Perhaps then I’d have more willpower. I’ll be home in a few days and looking for a new pit. Maybe I should look for one with mirrored walls. Or not.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day One hundred seven

We went to the CCPit yesterday. There’s nothing unusual about that and mostly nothing exciting about it either so I selected a rack, cranked the music up to blast away the pain level, programmed the onboard computer to the cross country setting and glided off. This program mimics flat roads, hills and dales that you are supposed to imagine in all their spring glory as you trudge along. My imagination isn’t that good. I did pretty well for the first few minutes, imagining…, well…., nothing. I was too busy checking out all the different televisions suspended from the ceiling in front of me. What can I say? I’m easily distracted and it’s a good thing too. Without the distraction I would have to notice the nasty pain in my thighs and the fact that my toes were going numb.

A talking head on one screen was telling me about the latest congressional scandal. I didn’t catch all of it as it’s hard to read the scrolling captions and not fall off the rack, but I did catch something about the lack of shower curtains and towels in the congressional gym. I’m an advocate of proper towel use in public places so I was taken aback when the female talking head said women don’t have to worry about that sort of thing. Au contraire mes amis. Have I not harped on this enough? Apparently not since there is an epidemic of inadequate towel usage, even at the highest, or lowest, levels of the pit world. If that female news reader doesn’t think women have a similar problem she should come by the CCPit on Tuesday morning just as the water aerobics class is letting out. I’m sure she would be lobbying congress for stimulus money to buy extra large towels for every pit locker room, male and female- as soon as she stumbled blindly out of the place. A towel in every Pit!! Or something like that.

While I pondered the towel problem I noticed a C and her personal trainer down in the strength training area. He put her on the thigh master machine and walked away leaving her to tone those thighs for a while. The talking heads went from the missing congressional towels to alligator wrestling, and I tuned back in. Seems the sport is gaining in popularity in Florida where I can only suppose there is an surplus of big, really stupid people, and someone thought this would be a good way to thin them out. They even have rules and everything. I’m not sure the alligators play by the rules, but the people are supposed to whether their leathery opponents do or not. I didn’t catch all the rules, but I’m pretty sure rule #1 is – Don’t go in the water with the alligator. This one is usually posted on the fence surrounding the amphibian enclosure and the best wrestlers are the ones who can’t read and thus miss this most important rule. Since alligator wrestlers can’t be expected to read words more than five letters in length, the word alligator is accompanied by a picture too, but still this sport exists.

The C on the thigh master was still there, gradually working those thigh muscles, waiting for her trainer to remember where she was and tell her to stop, either that or she’s hoping to become an alligator wrestler. On screen the Bubba demonstrated his technique- lull the gator into a sense of security, straddle it, hold on like a bronc rider and hope the damned slimy creature doesn’t grab some dangling part of your body, roll you under the water, hold you there until you drown, and then have you for lunch. I can see how strong thighs would be an asset in gator wrestling. A brain would be a better one.

All this time I was slogging through virtual swamps, dragging my reluctant body up those damned hills and dales with great balls of mud on my shoes. At one point I even thought I could hear the mud sucking at my feet, but then I realized it was just me – breathing. If a gator had been after me at that point I couldn’t have outrun it. My thighs were quivering masses and in no shape to wrestle anything or anyone. I fought my way out of a bog and up another slippery hill. Just as I thought I might make it out of the swamp alive a hippopotamus sat on my machine and my feet ground to a halt. Darned swamp animals.

Today we ventured over to the VPit which will be closing later this week for a two week overhaul and expansion. The place is all ready enormous, but in a few weeks will be (so they tell me) the largest Pit in California. Boggles the mind, doesn’t it? In addition to the growth spurt they will be getting all new equipment, and lots of it. This is good news for the people who go there to actually torture themselves as it’s difficult to find a weight machine that doesn’t have a Bro or two hanging off of it comparing Bro truck notes, tattoo’s, or calling their agent to see why they haven’t been offered any auditions lately.

I set myself up on the stair stepper thing-a-ma-bob, you know the one, there aren’t any actual moving steps, just foot paddles so it’s like climbing in place with concrete blocks around your ankles. The spokes-model on the one next to me thinks she’s so cool stepping that fast. I set mine to the ‘kill the old woman’ setting and step it up. Willow the spokes-model is taking shallow little steps at breakneck speed. I’m bottoming out on nearly every step, which is similar to climbing stairs three at a time, and clawing my way back to the top with each step only to be plunged back down the stairwell again. Once I made it back to the top and it let me stay there for a while to catch my breath (like that was going to happen, my breath had run off long ago and I wasn’t going to catch it) I thought about reaching over and pushing a few buttons on Willow’s machine just to see if she could keep up on my setting.

I was really considering doing it until I noticed plumber guy on one of the lounge chair bikes. My mood improved accordingly and I forgot about shallow Willow and our race to the top of the skyscraper. I was winning anyway and she knew it. There’s nothing like the view from the top to inspire, so once I made it the fifty floors I’d set as my goal I headed over to a half rack for some more torture. I chose wisely so I would still have a good view of plumber guy. I took a few deep breaths, selected a good song to get me moving and climbed aboard. Another few seconds and the computer was programmed to ‘kill her in small increments’ and that’s when I looked up and HE WAS GONE. I knew I should have gone over there and tossed one of those people over the rail so I could have a bike next to him, but my Southern upbringing told me that wasn’t nice. So there I was, intermittently killing myself and my inspiration was gone.

To say I was devastated may go too far, but I was certainly irritated. I’m taking this show on the road next week and this was my last chance to get a good look at plumber guy for a while. I spent the next twenty minutes letting the machine kick my booty and doing a pretty good job of it figuratively too. Oh well. Next week I’m going to be in Astronaut –ville and you can bet I’ll be on the lookout for something, or someone, out of this world. Maybe I’ll even find a real life alligator wrestler. Stay tuned.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Ninety-nine

I’ve got a few disjointed thoughts today in regard to the pit. I could probably write an entire blog on just one of these, but I’m lazy so you’re going to get the condensed version today. So here they are in no particular order.

Thought #1 – Today must have been ‘show your ink day’ at the pit. I’ve never seen so much body art in one room as I did today. At first I thought the C-25 on the stair thing-a-ma-jiggy had on a long sleeved shirt, but on closer inspection I saw that it was a ‘sleeve’ tattoo and a brightly inked one at that. I didn’t get close enough to see what else she had inked. Let’s just say I wondered why a pretty young thing would want to cover up perfectly good skin with ink that won’t wash off. The weight room was full of guys showing off their tats, most of which I wished they would cover up. There is always the exception to the rule and I found it on one of the machines. I don’t think he heard me chanting ‘take it off’ from where I was up in the aerobics crow’s nest because he kept the wife beater on. The shirt allowed just enough to peek out that I wanted to see more – whether more was inked or not. So my mind is bouncing around faster than my feet and inspired by some of the ink around me I start thinking. I know this is a dangerous thing to do when your brain is oxygen deprived, but I did it anyway. Call me curious, but what happens if say you get a size C body part inked and then somewhere down the line the body part becomes a size A? The body part has shrunk or shriveled, so how does that dragon look then? Can you still tell it’s a dragon?

Thought #2 - I recently read an article that said C’s who workout regularly have better long and short term memory than those who don’t. The article attributed larger hippocampi for this increased memory power. I don’t know so much about this. If it’s true, why can I still see my hippobutti but I can’t find my car in the parking lot? Just saying.

Thought #3 – As Daughter #1 and I arrived at the pit we stepped aside to let a young mother exit. She had an 18month old balanced on her hip and a three year old future beauty queen by the hand. Both children had red swollen eyes and tears streaming down their cheeks. As they passed us by we heard the mother say to the whining child beside her, “I know what the other kids said, but you are a princess.” We both smiled and laughed through our workouts. This I have declared is my new motto, the one I will pull out when the rejection letters and emails come in and the bullies of the world are at my door. Now if I could just find my tiara.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Ninety-three

I thought that photo would drag you in to read this! I’ll explain later…

I’ve been at this workout thing now for three whole months! Who’d a thought it? In celebration we have moved to a new pit. I can’t say I regret leaving the other pit, but I am sorry I never found the doughnut stash at the old one. I’m sure they had one. All those women coming in the front door and never being seen again had to be going somewhere. I think the secret was in the yoga mats. I should have gotten one for myself. I bet they would have ushered me straight to the doughnuts if I’d been carrying one.

For the last few days Daughter #1 and I have been going to the CCPit. There’s not a lot happening there, in fact it’s a pretty boring place. Of course there was the C+20 women doing the fun noodle crawl in the pool and their husbands hanging out (figuratively – I hope) in the hot tub. I had to do a mental check on that one to make sure I was in California and not Florida. If ever I had contemplated taking the water aerobics class that sight changed my thinking. Won’t be doing that. I staked out my little bit of territory on a rack on the second floor overlooking the weight machines. I programmed the computer to the ‘kill me in small increments’ setting and got busy.

It was heartening to see the firefighters nearby. Our old pit had some that were regulars, but they were off duty. These guys were on duty. How do I know that? Well, the big red truck in the parking lot was telling, and the walkie-talkies stashed in the cup holders clenched the deal. Between them and the portable defibrillator on the wall downstairs I thought it would be safe to proceed. At least I did until I spied the red velvet cupcake riding the lounge chair bike. Well, it wasn’t really a cupcake, but there was a woman wearing a red velour sweat suit with an icing pink t-shirt. Perhaps she reminded me of a cupcake because my favorite place to buy a red velvet cupcake has closed- a victim of these economic times. Maybe I should have bought a few more cupcakes when it was open.

Oh yeah, I bought more than I should have or I wouldn’t have been at the pit to begin with.

As promised in a previous blog, Daughter #1 and I decided to visit the VPit for a little entertainment. There is nothing dull about the VPit. So this morning we hauled ourselves over there and were rewarded for our efforts. Mid-morning the place was hopping. Nearly every aerobic machine was occupied, many by people actually using them! We were able to secure a couple in the front row so we had a good view of the weight room and where the weight room occupants didn’t have so good a view of our backsides.

A good number of Bro’s were there today. I should have paid more attention to the parking lot and its contingent of lifted trucks, but I didn’t and here we were, surrounded by guys with shaved heads, more art etched into their skin than is on the walls of the Louvre, and of course, wearing the requisite wife beater. They’re posing at the various machines for the benefit of the women on the mezzanine – me included- and doing….(drum roll)…..absolutely nothing.

The Bro’s weren’t the only show in town today. I was particularly intrigued by the mom and daughter pair on the exercise balls. Daughter lounged on the big red one, mom on the half sphere. I pedaled my lounge chair bike halfway to Hollywood while they carried on a conversation and did…. absolutely nothing. Daughter eventually changed her pose to a sitting position which must have gotten mom’s approval because she remained there for a good twenty minutes doing….absolutely nothing. Is there a market out there for young women who can perch on rubber balls for long periods of time? Forget I asked that question.

You would think that rubber ball girl would catch the attention of at least one Bro, but alas, they were all trolling for the same thing – to be discovered. Back in the day wanna-be’s hung out at the soda fountain hoping to be discovered. Today it’s the VPit. Good luck with that. Hope it works out for you.

Then there were Barbie and Ken carrying on a conversation on the bench next to the above mentioned posers. Barbie was in the same general area the last time we visited the VPit only that time she actually had to get near a piece of weight equipment before she garnered any male attention. She invested a good twenty minutes in today’s conversation with Ken. I hope she at least got a date out of it, if not an audition. Maybe the next time I see her it will be on the big screen. Call me a cynic, but I suspect the next time I see her she’ll be on that bench again.

I have to admit most of my attention was on the guy at the ab cruncher. He bore a striking resemblance to a certain actor who plays a plumber on a well known Sunday evening show. Yep, that’s the one. I knew you could figure it out. I’d hoped for some inspiring eye candy at the pit and I wasn’t disappointed. It could have been him. I’ve heard he lives in the area and has been seen doing real people stuff like coaching his son’s baseball team. The truth is, I don’t care if it’s him or not. This guy’s the best thing I’ve seen in the pit in three months and famous or not, I was enjoying the view.

Once the eye candy departed the ab cruncher I pretty much lost interest in the rest of the crowd. He was a hard act to follow and the rest of them just weren’t in his league. I did take note of the time. Guess where I’ll be in exactly one week? Who needs a secret doughnut stash when there’s eye candy in the pit?

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Eighty-seven

Why didn’t someone tell me? I’ve been at this workout thing for almost three months and today I found out you are only supposed to pose on the equipment, not actually use it! Now that I’ve figured this out I may have to rethink my whole approach to this fitness thing. This epiphany came today shortly after Daughter #1 and I arrived at the new pit. Our new pit has two locations in our little valley. Yesterday we went to one, and today thought we would give the other a try.

In order to lessen confusion I guess I’ll have to designate these locations CCPit and VPit. Anyone familiar with our little valley will figure this coding out easily, but I’m not inclined to change it. I’m not really into protecting their privacy so if you’ve figured out the code, keep it to yourself.

So yesterday we went to CCPit where the clientele, minus the homeless guy (I think I mentioned him once upon a time), resembles the peeps at our previous – to remain anonymous, open twenty four hours a day- pit. There is a pretty good cross section of society here. Neither one of us felt out of place among the fellow self torturers. Everyone was doing their own thing. Most were diligently applying themselves to the use of the equipment, paying little attention to the rest of us.

We trudged upstairs to the cardio, as in cardiac arrest, floor where they keep the assorted racks, treadmills and lounge chair bikes. The assumption is – if you can make it up the stairs you are fit enough to use the machines. I made it all the way to the top and selected a half rack on the back row and programmed the onboard computer to ‘kill me now’. Midway through the workout it occurs to me that there isn’t a wall behind me. The open railing behind me affords anyone down below a more than adequate view of my backside. I’m not sure why this bothers me today, as at our previous pit the machines were so close together that my a** was no more than fifteen feet from the person behind me. At least here I’m a whole floor above these people who should be lifting those weights anyway. I can’t help but wonder what the guy at the bench pressing station can see.

I resolved to choose the front row tomorrow. It won’t insure no one will be peering at my backside, but at least it will be a finite number. I can live with that.

So this morning we decided to try out VPit. Now that we have a choice we thought it would be a good idea to know what our options were. We’d heard the VPit tended to be crowded and lines to use the equipment were not unusual. Since we go about the same time everyday it was worth giving it a look. The parking lot was full, but once inside we saw that the MOP’s crowd was busy in the classes, leaving the rest of the place open for the DYI torture enthusiasts.

We made our way to the locker room, blessedly empty, then out to select our method of torture for the day. From my front row seat in the crow’s nest I have a pretty good view of the weight machines below, and the wanna be starlets populating the area. There’s more artificial intelligence down there than I’ve ever seen in one place before and all of it is prominently displayed. Some have dropped a few coins on their flashy workout gear, but others must have tapped out the bank account purchasing their grade DD intelligence and are reduced to wearing only their undergarments.

A few clueless types (like me) are actually using the equipment, getting all dewey and winded, but most are practicing their spokes-model moves using the equipment for props. There are the solo posers, leaning this way and that. I can only suppose they are hoping to be discovered – by whom I don’t have a clue. None of the other C-25’s scattered around the place in little coed groups look the type to be offering employment. Apparently none of them have jobs of their own or they wouldn’t be hanging around the VPit in the middle of the morning.

Maybe they’re hoping one of these self absorbed people will offer to buy them some liquefied lawn from the juice bar in the corner. Yak and gag. I don’t care how hot that guy in the sleeveless t-shirt is sitting on the ab cruncher texting the collagen and Botox babe leaning on the thigh master – I’m not drinking something that my dog knows as the toilet.

Every few feet is another knot of steroid enhanced, M.D. sculpted, scantily clad, highlighted, radiation tanned, waxed, buffed and polished C-25’s. The body language is clear. I see you. Do you see my new artificial intelligence? I don’t have to hear them to know what they are saying. The conversation goes something like this:

George of the Jungle – Hey. I haven’t seen you here in a while. You’re lookin’ good.

Jessica Rabbit – I’ve been looking for work. (Translation – I went to two casting calls for extras.)

George – How’s that going?

Jessica – You know (hair flip), I haven’t found anything yet. A friend of a friend of my ex boyfriend got a call back for a part in a sit-com pilot and if she gets it I’m sure she’ll put in a good word for me.

George – Wow! Sounds like you’re doing good. You still live around here?

Jessica – Yeah (gum snap). I’m still at home. I’ve been saving up for my own place, but it’s hard. I’m still paying off my student loans for that semester I went to community college. Between that and my medical bills (draws shoulders back to draw attention to new artificial intelligence) I haven’t been able to save up enough for a deposit on an apartment. You know how expensive everything is here.

George – Yeah, tell me about it. I was going to move out last month. I had the place picked out and everything, but then I had to get my bro-truck lifted (see photo). Now it’s going to be a while before I save up enough. Nice tat, by the way.

Jessica – (Pulls spaghetti strap down, tilts head so hair shifts to opposite shoulder) Thanks, it’s new.

George – (Nods head in agreement) Cooool. (Turns slightly) I just got a new one too, see?

Jessica – Ni- ice. What about you? You working now?

George – Naw. I was a gopher for a reality show, but it was cancelled. I’ve just been laying back, you know, resting since then. I’m sure something will come up soon. (Adjust flat brim of his bro-cap).

Jessica – (Clearly ready to move on as this loser is not the sugar daddy she’s trolling for) Well, nice seeing you again.

George – Yeah. Ni-ice.

Daughter #1 and I head for the locker room. The classes have disgorged a horde of trophy wives who are busy remaking themselves before they go out in public. When your sole purpose in life is to look good it is unacceptable to walk out of the pit in dewey workout clothes, even ones with stylish names emblazoned across the butt. Most of these women are headed to the spa or the salon, or the nail place from here, then it’s on to the mall to shop the junior department at Macy’s. Hair dryers are buzzing, there’s enough makeup strewn across the counters to stock a good sized Sephora. Not a sports bra in sight. I knew I should have bought stock in Victoria’s Secret. What was I thinking?

Yep. I wish someone had told me this is how the beautiful people work out. I’ve been wasting my time getting all dewey and tired. There’s a whole other world out there. I’m coming here more often.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Olympic Style

The thermostat at the pit is set on bake today despite the summer like temperature outside. One minute on the ¾ rack and the dew is falling harder than is really necessary but I’m determined to stick it out to the end of my programmed fat burner workout. I’ve cranked up the music and scanned the crowd for an interesting diversion to no avail. One of the national morning shows is on so I focus in on the flat screen television hanging in front of me. The world is abuzz with the Winter Olympics and it’s only a few minutes before the program switches to coverage of a downhill skiing event. I’m transported to another time and place….

High above the venue I’m poised on the brink. The tips of my skis point the way to greatness, but the path is not without danger. I am the best my country has to offer. I am good at what I do. I am the best. I am a champion. My heart tells me there is a disc of gold waiting for me at the end of this run. Everything within me knows this is true.

I close my eyes and listen to the roar of the crowd as one of my competitors completes the run setting the mark I must surpass. I need not strive for an Olympic or World Record, but only to complete the run a mere fraction of a second faster than the one before me. I can do it. I know I can. Eyes still closed I feel the cool, not cold air on my face. I see the run in my mind. I’ve been over it many times in training runs and qualifying heats and thousands of times over in my mind. I know every inch. I know about the block of ice along the first curve, the slush like quicksand that can suck you in and destroy your dreams along the inside of the third curve. In my mind’s eye I visualize every move I will make, every twist, every turn. My body responds and I can almost feel the ground under my skis and the wind on my face.

For days I’ve prayed for snow but Mother Nature has forsaken us. There is no fresh powder to cushion the run. I long for the feel of laying first tracks on a pristine run, but will settle for the hard packed base and alternating patches of ice and slush.

Electronic beeps signal the countdown. I draw in a deep, cleansing breath and savor the hint of pine and fir carried on the spring like air. A drop of sweat trickles down my spine, not from fear but a product of the warm weather. No matter. I have trained for this. My coach adds his voice to the electronic beeps. I open my eyes and focus on a point some distance away. That is where I must shift my weight into the first turn.

The final beep, good luck shouted to my back as I shove with all my might and propel myself over the edge and hopefully into history. Adrenaline flows through my veins, a drug like no other. I welcome the rush; savor the edge it will give me.

I see nothing but white ice and the blue lines painted underneath to mark my way. I do not need them; my body knows the way down the hill. I could do this run with my eyes closed. My skis cut into the ice on the first turn, my legs burn with the effort to control my descent. Man against nature. Physics, action and reaction, friction and heat. All my senses are tuned to the run. My skin registers the unwelcome warm temperature, a warning in itself. I hear the rasp of wood on ice, then the shush of softly frozen mush, like skiing through a pina colada. My eyes scout ahead to the next curve, the next soft spot, and the next patch of ice. I try to anticipate where a thin crust of ice could be hiding a patch of ice cold quicksand.

Seconds. Milliseconds. My inner clock ticks away, calculating by instinct. I’m doing well, possibly better than I’ve ever done in my life. At this rate the gold disc is mine, if I can keep it up.

In the blink of an eye my world shifts on its axis. A new sound, one every skier dreads, meets my ears. A heartbeat, a lifetime of training, a dream dies with the sound of cracking ice followed by the tell tale sound of slush sucking my ski into its bottomless pit. Another heartbeat and a spray of icy pellets sear my cheeks, or perhaps those are my frozen tears. After the unseasonable warm temperature above it’s like being dropped into an ice bath. My fevered skin protests, muscles scream against the change in program. No, not that way! My body fights the inevitable. There is a disconnect between brain and muscle.

My body slams into the solid block of ice clinging to the next curve and careens off into yet another wet trap. Everything in me, muscle, bone, thought, dream, desire, hope, screams in protest of this undignified end. At last I come to a complete stop. Seconds. The metal discs, all of them are beyond my reach. All I can do now is right myself and see it through to the end.

Flags wave and the crowd cheers as I limp across the finish line. Seconds. Minutes. Crushed dreams, but still I have lived the moment. I am an Olympian. I have given it my all and even though it wasn’t enough, I gave it with all my heart.

Tears stream down my cheeks. Tears of exhaustion. Tears of defeat. Tears of pride.

Not tears, dew. Sweat to everyone else. I glance down at the computer on the ¾ rack. Thirty seconds have passed, twenty-five and one half minutes to go on my fat burner workout. I can do this. I know I can. Everything in me knows I am a champion. For a moment I lived the dream.