Friday, January 14, 2005
Life on the mill.
Indoors is not a good place to run. Convenient? Yes. Light when it's dark outside? Yes. And treadmills are soft and bouncy, like the trampolines I always heard about in junior high and high school. (I never got to actually jump on the trampolines because they were always at hot girls' houses (with parents who probably bought their kids Zima) and, well, I wasn't invited. Not that my dad would have let me do something so dangerous anyway. Don't you people know that trampolines can lead to back injuries. All that bouncing can't be good for your digestion, you know.)
Parenthetical asides aside, I've discussed this whole gym topic at length in a previous semi-amusing post. So instead of boring you, dear reader, with another long-winded treatise on the gym, I'll just tell you what happened yesterday:
I got to the gym. I got on the only open treadmill in front of the TV. It was broken. I waited patiently for another treadmill. A woman with a Russian accent (I bet her name was Olga.) finished her walk, and got off. I got on the treadmill. I set it for 10 miles. I ran 3.9 miles or so in 45 minutes. The treadmill stopped. I don't know why. It probably had a time limit set in. I finished my run.
I was out of clean running clothes yesterday. So I wore a white cotton undershirt to run. It was warm in the gym. I sweat like Ernest Borgnine eating onions in a sauna. By the end of my run, my white T-shirt was transparent. I looked like the star of a "Girls gone Wild" video. I was the only contestant in my own personal wet T-shirt contest. I was the winner. I am disgusting.