***
When I got home last night, my wife enthusiastically declared that she signed up to run a half marathon on Mother's Day.
Mother's Day, 2014...just two weeks away.
Interestingly enough, while I thought that it was just great that she's able to run the equivalent of Everett to Lynnwood on a whim, I could not help but think that my glory days were over. For the remaining few hours of awake time that I had last night, I considered my options of how to make my fitness revival.
My decision-making capabilities were slightly hampered, though, because I was gorging myself with homemade chocolate chip cookies. They were fabulous.
Waking up at 4:15am this morning, I was feeling great despite the previous night's doughboy endeavors. And while driving to the YMCA, I decided to give the treadmill a shot. I was not satisfied with just a simple jog, though, I planned on cranking up the turbo and try to run at a 10-minute mile pace! For those of you laughing at my aspiring speed, please direct me to the other seven-footer you know that can run six miles per hour.
Six miles per hour. It sounded amazing. Mystical.
Stepping onto the treadmill, I casually pulled each foot, one at a time, up to my rear to get a quick stretch of some legs muscles.
On a bar in front of me, there was a gigantic red button and an attached tether labeled "emergency stop." I figured that only dog owners and loving parents use tethers, so I decided not to hook up.
My head was about three feet above the attached television screen, so I tucked my earbuds away. Looking down to watch and listen to the television didn't seem like a very cool thing to do. After all, Prefontaine never ran with his head down.
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| Steve Prefontaine |
My wife talks about the first mile of her training runs being the slowest mile of the entire run. Seeing that I was just starting my run, making the first mile my slowest seemed like an acceptable plan for me too. I settled right in at about 4 m.p.h., which coincidentally is the walking speed of a turtle.
After about five minutes, I determined that it was time to get things cookin' as I was going to make myself late for work if I maintained my "slowest mile."
While holding onto the safety bar, I rapidly pushed a button that increased my speed to 6 m.p.h. The sensory experience was sensational! My footstep cadence sounded regular, if not a bit heavy. And the high pitched whining of the treadmill's belt was downright wicked.
For the next twenty minutes, I ran that way. Fast! While my athletic ego was beaming, my self image was facing reality: I couldn't help but think that I must look like a capybara on my little treadmill.
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| Capybara--the World's Largest Rodent |
Rather suddenly, I hit a metaphorical wall. I was excruciatingly tired. I started to feel the back roller of the treadmill with my toes on almost every stride. The fear of actually falling off of the treadmill shocked me into a burst of energy, and I made my way to the front of the machine.
At that moment, I glanced to my left and saw myself in a full-sized mirror. Being as tall as I am, I rarely get to see my whole body in a mirror. My self admirations were interrupted by a loud rubbing squeal, though, as I had gently drifted to the side of the treadmill's belt which caused my shoe's sole to wail in agony.
I quickly corrected my stride, glanced around the gym to be sure that nobody noticed the misstep, and continued my 6 m.p.h. speed.
A moment later, my entire right foot went off of the treadmill and halted on the safety step-off platform on the side of the running deck. Life slowed down, and I desperately tried to stay upright. My left foot continued on its 6 m.p.h. stride, followed by a fruitless attempt to get my right foot back onto the treadmill.
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| Mikhail Baryshnikov |
I did succeed at getting both feet back onto the moving belt, but had over-corrected. My body was incapable of performing a Baryshnikov-esque controlled re-alignment. While still on the moving belt, my body now turned to the side, perpendicular to the treadmill. I thought that I had better get my stuff together or I just might fall.
I fell. Hard.
The world's largest rodent, weighing 240 pounds, smacked the deck of that treadmill with such force that the machine actually stopped. Desperately wanting to crawl into a hole, I tried to move off of the treadmill. However, with shifting weight, the industrial motor was freed just enough to spin right back to 6 m.p.h., taking a swath of my forearm skin with it.
Things were falling apart quickly. And now I was getting hurt, too. I tried once more to move off of the once-again-still treadmill, but the movement allowed the machine to scream to speed and take a patch of skin from my back this time.
Like a Marine diving into a bunker to avoid the blast of the incoming grenade, I dove awkwardly to the ground.
Immediately, people from all around approached to ask if I was alright. I so desperately wanted to think of a witty remark, but was able to muster nothing other than a shake of my head and fake-smile.
Trying to regain a grain of dignity, I went over to the stretching mats. Doing some floor exercises seemed like a much more macho surrender than throwing in the towel and hitting the showers.
It was probably the worst possible thing to do because I was now in a location of the Y wherein I had to go on a Walk of Shame to exit the cardio room. So a few minutes later, I lowered my head and walked in between the facing rows of treadmillers and had to endure the altruistic concerns asking me if I was okay all over again.
***
I have fallen into a pattern of trying to literally keep up with my wife with my fanciful expectations of becoming a runner myself. Eistein's pragmatic observation of insanity is quickly becoming my personal truth: I'm doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.
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