(FYI, I wrote this last week but am just getting to posting now)
The past three weeks, all of my work outs (save the long-runs) have been done at the local county Rec Center. I like the gym, it’s small, family oriented and I never have to worry about a gaggle of frat guys hogging the weights when I want to do my reps of 10 lb bicep curls. I do get frustrated on the treadmills, though. There are 9 in the gym and usually a few are free, but I always worry that they’ll fill up and I’ll get kicked off after my half-hour time limit. (Even my shortest runs are at least 4 miles, which at a recovery pace takes me about 35-40 minutes. Yesterday, during a 9 mile sprit work out, I was on for about 80.) Getting kicked off has yet to happen, and I question whether the teenage guy supervising would actually ask me to get off, but I try to be accommodating all the same. This fear, as a result, has caused me to loathe treadmill walkers. Training for a marathon, I need to run. Burning a few calories by walking could be done just as easily on an elliptical. Recently, as I was nearing my 30 minute limit, I noticed that all of the treadmills were taken. I still had another mile to go and worried that I wouldn’t be able to get it in. Luckily, the woman next to me got off and a man in khaki shorts hopped on. I’m really glad I didn’t get off for him, I would have been really angry that my precious treadmill spot had gone to a guy who looked like he was about to go out for a Sunday drive. I finished my mile and went to stretch, and saw him over there only a few minutes later. Ugg, I hate to sound elitist, but I really feel like I need to be on a treadmill more than him and others like that.
Alternately, when I see high school girls rock the elliptical it takes me back to my days at the Towson Y. I spent hours there with my friends, doing cardio, lifting weights and kicking imaginary adolescent boy butt during cardio-kick classes. I remember one middle-aged man asking my friend Abbie and I what we were training for. Our response? Prom. Part of me wants to reach out and make sure these girls are killing themselves at the gym to be skinny, but the other part applauds their healthy lifestyle and working in exercise now. I remember meticulously counting calories and not getting off of a machine until I hit a certain amount. I have a vivid image of one of my classmates hopping on an elliptical and asking “so if I burn 3500 calories, that’s a pound, right?” My gym motivation has changed since from being purely aesthetic to being physiologically sound for sports or an event, but those ideas have yet to leave me.
I’ve been a gym rat (or when I don’t belong to a gym, a running fiend) for at least 8 years now for various reasons (losing weight, training for sports, training for races) and I can’t imagine functioning without the calming effect a hard workout has on me. After a tough day at work, I can’t wait to go home and pound the pavement. Whenever I’m in a bad mood, I know that sweat and endorphins will make me feel a whole lot better than a tube of chocolate chip cookie dough.
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