Okay, so the whole power-it-yourself treadmill is really a workout, not at all like the automatic ones at the gym. Running on the self-propelled belt is a lot more like trying to run on the street because my legs have to actually work rather than just lightly pretend to be gaining momentum.
It is partially through this activity that my coworker calls. She doesn't bring attention to it, but this must sound like an obscene phone call with her talking away and me breathing heavily into the receiver. When all is said and done, I actually work out more than I anticipate and feel pretty good about myself.
Of course, I say this as I am sitting at my computer eating homemade chocolate chip cookies and sucking down a huge glass of milk.
I am truly trying to get myself back to fighting shape. I'll never be able to do judo again (because of my rebuilt foot), not that I was ever any good, but I liked the fighting. I'm a bit of a masochist that way. The road back to being healthy and fit isn't easy at my age, but I am determined, this time anyway, not to give up on this whole training myself to run schtick.
Today I realize just how lame I am, though. My class before lunch sees the clock is at 11:08. I am not allowed to dismiss them until 11:09, even if there are other classes spilling into the hallway. Every day I tell them, "Seeing you all trying to get away from me is like a knife through my heart." Today is no different. I give them my spiel and shake my head sadly as they gather at the door, watching the clock tick away.
One girl looks at me, pleading with her eyes. "But don't you know how looooooong a minute is when you're waiting for lunch?" she asks me.
"Of course I do," I snap back, "it's about half as long as a minute on the treadmill."
Oh, boy. Going to a lacrosse game tonight, but tomorrow I'm back on that treadmill ... for a minute ... or more.
