Crazy Fit Old Man is at it again.
I'm guessing he's in his early 70s. He's wearing, as every day, nondescript exercise shorts and a white undershirt as a t-shirt. No matter whether I come in the morning or the afternoon, he is always on the stairmaster, climbing stairs FAR faster than I ever could, the sweat pouring off him. His shirt is always soaked. He required multiple face-towels to dry off his machine the one time I actually saw him finish a workout. Normally, he's there when I arrive, and still stepping when I leave. He clings to the rails of the stair-stepper for dear life as though the fast-moving stairs might fling him off at any moment. But he apparently can do this in defiance of the machine, gravity, aging, and the loss of the complete water content of the human body, on a daily basis. I wonder if he's training for some 70+ category in a marathon. Or if he's just bored. Or if he's really twice my age (which he looks). Today he's changed things up a bit: he chose a machine by the window.
I pick a treadmill and start my new favorite exercise: hill walking. Set the incline to maximum, the pace to 20-minute miles, and huff up a one-mile hill as fast as I can go. Feeeeel the burn in all the parts of my lower half that really really need to work.
I hit the saddest of all hilarious happy places on this incline workout today when Jazzy Jazz the Dancin' Man picks the treadmill in front of mine for his workout. He's one of those thick-necked weight-lifter types who can't put his arms straight down by his sides because too many muscles get in the way. He's sporting shiny headphones. He makes no eye contact. He sets the treadmill pace to something moderate, gets on, and immediately starts struting through the walk. Shoulders pumping, hands swinging all cool-like halfway behind his back. Then the pace picks up, and he is dancing. He does little sideways steps, like a hip-hop version of the sashay they made us do in square dancing class during PE. He turns backwards on the treadmill and does funky little hopping steps, faces front again, and begins pumping his arms in the air to the music I cannot hear, and so I can only tell is not Y.M.C.A. because his arms aren't spelling anything. I want whatever you're listening to, Mr. Nutty Jazzy Dancing-on-the-Treadmill in Your Noise-Canceling Headphones Man.
Why is this sad? With my treadmill at an incline, I miss half the show because the monitor panel blocks my view of his feet. I have never seen happier shoulders, or more dancing arms, or a finer strut, however, on anyone on a treadmill anywhere. I wish Jazzy Jazz would go on forever. Sadly, this is apparently just an interlude in the weight lifting, and he leaves.
I am left to run a mile as fast as I can alone and regret that I have not chosen this flat portion of my workout to come before the one-mile incline. I wish that there was anything even remotely as interesting on the TVs. There isn't. Unless you count the Extended Play version of a Swiffer infomercial. I don't.
I go downstairs to work on my computer for the remainder of my daycare time allotment. The kids are having a ball. Why not?
The cushy couches are located right next to a new free demo: "Guess Your Body's Age and WIN!!" (no suggestion of what you win). It's a semi-torturous series involving stretching, lifting, running, and submitting one's body fat to calipers. I have a number in my mind instantly, an age I think my body is. But I waste all my time wondering whether this is what I really think my body age is or only what I want it to be, and so I don't get tested.
Also, I keep thinking about the nutty stair-stepping septuagenarian, who might have a body age younger than mine in this little test. Which is just embarrassing. I don't know why or how he does it. But one thing's for darn sure: he's fit. Ca-ray-hay-zee fit.
And as I'm leaving the gym with the kids, the "Guess Your Age" guru on the gym staff smiles at me and says, "Sorry you lost your entertainment up there!" And I realize that he was watching me watching Jazzy Jazz. And that I was probably ogling in precisely the way one might deem rude. And I'm momentarily embarrassed. Until I realize that his comment means Age Guru must have been ogling me, or else he wouldn't have known what I was ogling Jazzy Jazz.
And suddenly, I'm not embarrassed. I did not fall off my treadmill. I ran a mile in just over 9 minutes. I am ogle-able! Now I just need to find myself a new exercise-machine name. I don't much like the sound of OgleTime.
** In case you need a laugh, I thought I'd embed this little gem here. For serious: treadmill dancing at its most awesome. Not quite the same as Jazzy Jazz, but darn good. No weight-lifting muscles were harmed in the making of this video, as they were not allowed on the set.**
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Crazy Fit Old Man is at it again.