I’m at the gym while visiting my parents in the 1000 Islands. It has an unobstructed view of the St. Lawrence River. I climb on a treadmill, program it for “weight loss”, and look up from the display in time to see a giant cargo ship easing its way up the river. Dear Dianna, It doesn’t get any better than this. What a view!
The only time I’ve been at a gym whose view topped this was on the cruise with my dad. The gym was at the front of the ship on the top deck. I grabbed the treadmill in the center. I felt very tall up there, and powerful, as if I could make the ship go faster by turning up the speed on the belt. The serotonin rush that keeps me coming back to the treadmill for another fix was beginning to fill my head, affecting my perspective. I feel like Jesus. Walking on water. When I’m in the zone, burning up more than 10 calories a minute I start getting cocky. I bet Jesus didn’t burn 300 calories when he walked on water. I bet he only walked a few steps just to show people he could do it. I crank the belt up to 4.5 mph and begin a slow run. Ten bucks Jesus didn’t run on water. I’ve got him there, for sure.
When I’m not competing with Jesus, I’m competing with people who think they are God. I am working up a sweat, watching boats go up and down the river, thinking my thoughts and a gym rat, older than me, with a shaved head and muscle shirt walks over to the only fan that is blowing in my general direction. He points it toward a machine he plans on using. He even sees me. He sees from whom he is taking the wind. He doesn’t care. He walks over to his machine, cranks up the resistance, closes his eyes and begins his workout. He can’t hear me because his iPod is cranked. I can say anything I want.
“Did you see that?” I say loudly to the two women on rowing machines in front of me. “He just took my breeze!”
The woman on the left smiles at me. She saw it, too. I say louder this time: “The sweat dripping down my temples isn’t make-up, pal!” Nothing.
The more I speak, though, the more the women up front stop smiling and looking back. My allies are reconsidering. I think they think I am crazy. I get that all the time. I decide to give it a rest. Have some self-control. When my hour is up I walk passed the two women on the rowing machines and say, “Let’s see if he still wants the fan facing him.”
I stand in front of the fan and air out my armpits. Shaved Head Man looks up. He sees the touché smirk on my face when I look over the shoulder of the armpit I’m airing out. He shakes his head and smiles back. You got me, lady.
The quieter, older of the two woman on the rowing machines finally speaks. She says, “He’s zoned out. They come in here and do that. Do their own thing and zone out. Just like in bed.”
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