Treading Water

Some years ago—when exactly, I can’t remember—I resolved to get more exercise. Unlike some of my other resolutions, like Will Schultz’s vow to always speak in the third person, I actually kept this one. It was easy, really, once I applied my crippling OCD to the problem. When I started treating exercise as a boring, repetitive task, rather than as something fun and enjoyable, I felt compelled to do it each and every day. Not every day, I suppose. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays are for exercise; Tuesdays and Thursdays are for relaxing; Saturday is for chores; Sunday is for donuts.

At Chapel Hill, I would get up early three times a week and go for a run around the neighborhood. Chapel Hill’s a great place to run. It has lots of long, winding back streets, where you can run past fancy homes that belong to the Dean of Students or the Dean of Tuition Hikes or whoever. Traffic is light, so except at a few street crossings, you never feel in grave bodily danger. If you’re feeling frisky you can run all the way to the Dean Dome. My old running schedule used to include a couple laps around the Dome. I stopped this routine after I got lost halfway through the fifth lap. Hey, it’s a big building!

Running is a little trickier in Fullerton. First, the streets of Fullerton are mean indeed. Have a mentioned that the drivers here are homicidal? I know I have, but I should mention it again. The drivers are homicidal. Oh, you think you’ve got the right of way? Think again, little pedestrian. The only thing you have the right to do is get the hell out of my way. Move, or you’ll end up splattered halfway to Santa Monica.

So instead of risking life and limb by running in Fullerton, I’ve taken to using the treadmill in the basement of UV’s student center. Yes, I know. A treadmill is to real running as artificial insemination is to sex. It’s not running; it’s running-lite. You miss out on the fresh air and beautiful California sunshine. So sue me. I like my exercise to be free from the grim specter of death. Is that too much to ask? I think not.

The UV’s treadmill has got a little dashboard covered with all sorts of buttons. I’ve figured out about half of them through trial and (mostly) error. I can crank up the speed, from “old man moseying down to pick up the mail” to “Usain Bolt running the 1 meter dash right after taking a big snort of cocaine.” Note: those are not the actual titles. I can also shift the incline of the treadmill, allowing you to imagine that you’re climbing a mountain. A mountain with a movable track running to the summit, but a mountain nonetheless.

I also listen to music while I run. It helps take my mind off of the burning pain in my ankles, knees, thighs, and nose (from that time I smacked my face on the dashboard). Some people like to listen to soothing music while they run. They say it helps them calm down, and allows them to keep their breathing under control. I say: wimps! I prefer some hardcore pumping up music. Of course, for me, anything heavier than the Carpenters is hardcore. The heaviest album I ever listened to was “Abbey Road.”

This morning’s run was a bit unusual. The treadmill faces a window, but the shutters are always drawn. That means I spend twenty minutes bouncing up and down while staring at a row of white plastic slats. “Oh,” I find myself wishing, “If only the window was open! Then I could bask in the sunlight while I run! I could see the newly-mown grass outside and people splashing in the pool!”

Ha! The windows were open today. Turns out I didn’t miss much. The first thing I saw was my reflection. I never realized how goofy I look running on a treadmill. I bounce up and down like some kind of spastic wind-up toy, my head bobbing in and out of view. It looks like I’m the mole in some crazy game of whack-a-mole. And if I back up to get a better view out the window, I see…a wall. Remember, the gym is in the basement of the community center. Not much to see out there. I tried to focus on the wall, but my incessant bouncing made the wall appear to jump up and down. Soon, I started to feel a little seasick. I closed my eyes, cranked up the Beach Boys, and prayed that by Friday some kind soul would have closed the window.