Normally I have friends who walk along with me with the fitness center. They supply companionship, conversation, and occasionally a shock prod, all of which keeps me putting one foot in front of another until the time of torture has passed.
But the other day, everyone was busy — or so they said — so I slogged around the track by myself. My commitment to walk warmed my heart and made me feel quite virtuous for about 10 minutes. Then my usual lazy self said, “Let’s stop.”
“No,” I said. “I must get healthy.”
My lazy self knows there’s no good answer to that, so it simply said, “Here’s a bench. Let’s sit down. You don’t want to have a heart attack.”
“I’ll rest in a bit,” I said. “After one mile. Get off my back!”
A lady in a yellow jogging suit passed me. She gave me a strange look, which made me wonder if I had been talking aloud. I hope not. Nothing ever good comes of that, especially on a date. I smiled at her, and she sped up and left sole marks on the floor. Sigh.
“See what you caused,” I said, then realized I was still doing it. My lazy self laughed at me silently.
A few more people passed me. That doesn’t bother me. A lot of young runners race around the track. It bothers me a bit when that lady with a walker passes me, but two of the walker legs have wheels so I’m sure that helps her.
Sixteen times around the track makes a mile. Thirty-two times makes a two miles. I’m currently walking two and a fourth miles. Or attempting to. Some days, particularly when it’s hot, I stop when I throw up or faint. All in all, I’m a delightful person to walk with.
Anyway, the internal conversations have allowed me to log four laps. Only 32 more to go. Whee. I keep track of how many laps I’ve walked with a counter that I bought from Amazon. I click it each time I complete a lap. I got the counter because I discovered I lose count, particularly on the later laps when my brain is starved for oxygen. Truthfulness — and my walking companions — compel me to point out that I tended to overestimate the number of laps. For instance, I might have only walked eight laps when I would think I had walked 10 or maybe 26.
When I first started this, I had trouble even making eight laps, but now I can do my 36 and usually don’t have to go to the emergency room afterwards. I try to not faint because there’s this bearded guy at the fitness center who attempts to give mouth-to-mouth to anyone who even looks ashen faced. Well, I think it’s a bearded guy, but I’ve been told his name is Hilda and SHE used to be on the Russian Olympic team. I prefer the ER.
By this time, I had completed 16 laps so I got to sit down. The fitness center has three benches along the track. I try to pick the one closest to the air conditioner vent, but it’s usually taken by other people or the Sweater, who is not an article of clothing but a man who produces sweat by the gallon. Only a horse could produce more. He actually leaves a puddle on the bench. He seems to be a nice guy, although I don’t know anyone who gets close enough to find out.
Just another 20 laps, I told myself.
Myself pouted quietly.
I heaved my body off the bench and started walking again. I try to work on plots for my books or think deep thoughts while I walk. I’m told some people can enter into a state of heightened consciousness and actually meditate while exercising. Unless meditation is characterized by the desire to throw up, I haven’t achieved that state yet. Supposedly you can get to where you enjoy exercise. I have an acquaintance who claims to enjoy exercise. I’m always wary around him. A man who will lie about that will lie about other things, too.
I was ready to quit, but the counter only showed 29 laps. I wondered if it was broken or maybe I forgot to click a few times. Like seven times?
But I can’t convince myself. So I plodded around the track, sweating like the Sweater, heart racing like a horse, and my mind buzzing with all the things I was going to say to my lazy walking companions who had wimped out.
Copyright 2011 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Excerpted from the forthcoming book Return of the Floozy. No copying without prior express written permission from the author and publisher. Thanks for reading.
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1 comment:
If you're fantasizing THAT about Hilda, I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed. ;)
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