Sunday, Mar. 14, 2004
Dear Diary:

Like a moth to the flame. I sweartogawd, I'm never, ever going to learn.

I wasn't even supposed to be at the gym this morning. I was supposed to show up Friday but we were sugaring and by the time I got out of the sugar house I was just too tired to work out. I told myself I'd go Saturday but jeepers, who wants to spend Saturday at a gym?

I woke up this morning, mentally bitch-slapped myself for my sloth and after breakfast dragged my aged carcass off to the gym.

It was my day to focus on my leg workout so I told myself I'd do that first and then do a light two mile run afterwards. Once I got into the routine I started to enjoy it, really threw myself into it, upping the weight on my lunges and the leg press. After a 45 minute workout it was time to wind down by doing the brief, leisurely run.

I got on my treadmill and started to warm up. A young guy got on the treadmill beside me and ostentatiously looked over at my speed. He programmed the same speed on his treadmill.

Fine.

So after a few minutes warm up I started to speed up for running. Again, he ostentatiously looked over at my speed. Again, he set his treadmill to my speed and started to run in tandem with me.

Fine.

He looked at me with mass quantities of smug. It Was A Throw Down.

A mature, evolved woman would have ignored the throw down, done her leisurely two mile run, and gotten off the treadmill secure in the knowledge that she'd done a sane, balanced workout.

Me? My response was to mentally reply, "Oh yeah? Oh Yeah? BRING IT ON, LITTLE MAN, BRING. IT. ON." Yes, I am living proof that a person can age and yet paradoxically never grow up. This seems to be my special gift.

Two miles came and went on the odometer. I looked over at Mr. I Can Whip That Woman's Butt and he was chugging along without effort. What I should have done at that point was slow the treadmill, go into my cool down and then get off. I mean, I know I can run over five miles now so what's the big deal with this guy I don't know thinking he can outrun me?

Did I do that?

Oh, no, because that would have been the mature thing to do.

No, instead I kept running. Running on legs that had been heavily worked out for 45 minutes on various and sundry machines. Tired legs. Legs that wanted to go home and curl up on the sofa.

Three miles came and went on the odometer. I looked over at Mr. I Can Whip That Woman's Butt and could see he was sweating but he looked as if he still had a fair bit of oomph left. Oh crap.

What I should have done at that point was slow the treadmill, go into my cool down and then get off. Did I do that? Oh, no, because that would have been the mature thing to do.

Four miles flashed on the treadmill odometer. Twice as far as I intended to run. My heart rate monitor climbed into the high 160's. I looked over at Mr. I Can Whip That Woman's Butt and to my relief saw that he was struggling, on his final legs. His breath was ragged, his face beet red, sweat was pouring down his face. I didn't look so hot myself, but I knew I had more juice left than he did.

I could have given him an easy out. I could have hit the speed button on my treadmill and slowed into cool down. I know he knew that I was in better shape than he was, the point had been made. Did I do that? Oh, no, because that would have been the mature thing to do.

No, I pushed him until he was forced to go into his cool down because he could not run another step. Then, while he did his cool down, I continued to run. I was so intent on crushing him that I ended up running over five miles. I didn't go into my cool down until he stepped off his treadmill.

I sweartogawd, if I hadn't been so utterly whipped I would have started pounding my chest and making territorial gorilla sounds at him as he left.

There are times when I surprise even myself with my lunacy.

Despite the fact that I was very careful to do a thorough stretch out after the run, my body is screaming insults at me. I can feel muscles tightening, joints protesting. Come tomorrow I know I am going to be insanely stiff and it is going to hurt to walk.

Have I finally learned my lesson? Have I finally learned that fitness is not a competition with anyone else, that it's just about taking care of your body, making it as strong and supple as you can?

Yeah, sure I have.

Until the next throw down.

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 231.32 miles. Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.
Oh man. This is going to be hard
Goal for 2004: 1,000 miles - 1609 kilometers

Going Nowhere Collaboration

.:Comments (25 so far):.

Old Drivel - New Drivel


Subscribe with Bloglines


Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


.:Cast:. .:Diaryland Notes:. .:Comments (25 so far):. .:E-mail:.
.:Adventures In Oz:.
.:12% Beer:. .:Links:. .:Host:. .:Archives:.

Cavort, cavort, my kingdom for a cavort Globe of Blogs 12 Per Cent Beer my partners in crime


A button for random, senseless, drive-by linkings:
Blogroll Me!


< ? blogs by women # >
Bloggers over forty + ?
<< | BlogCanada | >>
[ << ? Verbosity # >> ]
<< x Blog x Philes x >>


This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

Kids, don't try viewing this at home without Netscape 6 or IE 4.5+, a screen resolution of 800 X 600 and the font Mead Bold firmly ensconced on your hard drive.

2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.