ever-fixed mark

Massachusetts is light-years behind the rest of the country when it comes to gym culture. The first gym I ever joined here, in Cambridge, was a huge cold dirty warehouse crammed with universal weights and treadmills. The locker room was unspeakable. I’ve worked in inner-city schools with more ambiance.

The next gym I joined, near my office, was in the bottom floor of another office park, and felt like the health club version of a cube farm. The rooms were about six and a half feet high and the whole thing was fluorescently lit. Whenever I climbed up onto the treadmill, I felt like I was about to burst right through the drop ceiling.

When we moved to Port City, I joined the local gym. It was cozier than the warehouse and roomier than the cube farm. But the treadmills on the first floor only went up to 6 miles an hour (!). There were limited entertainment options in the cardio room, just two big-screen TVs with the audio blaring through an antiquated PA system. The water pressure in the showers was flaccid. Every class I took was off somehow; one time, someone left a yoga class early, and the instructor bitched, “I always knew she didn’t like me.” Namaste to you, too.

This year, I was motivated by the extended renovations to and subsequent closure of the YWCA pool to check out a gym across the river. Swimming is one of the best ways for the kids to get exercise in the winter months, and I was dreading a season without a pool. And the new gym was much nicer, although not anywhere near the amenity levels of the health clubs I belonged to in Chicago almost a decade ago. There are enough parking spots, though, and the treadmills go up to 7.5 miles an hour (maybe higher; that’s as far as I go). The locker room is comfortable. The workout rooms are nice. And there are TVs everywhere, although I’m not sure if that’s a plus or minus. Almost all of the cardio machines have individual TVs, with personal audio hook-ups, and there are additional screens in all the rooms with closed-captioning, if you prefer to listen to music while you watch/read television, like I do. Sometimes I feel the information overload is a little much, but then again, running indoors is boring, and a little trash TV really helps to pass the time.

Unfortunately, as I recently discovered, the TV reception in the club is confined to six channels: The NFL network, ESPN 1, ESPN2, the Sci-Fi channel, CNN, and some kind of advertising channel for the club that also has videos on it. Why would anyone assume that just because someone wants to play sports, that they like to watch them on TV? I certainly don’t, and since “Battlestar Galactica” was not playing on the Sci-Fi channel, I was forced to watch Christine Amanpour’s depressing report on orphans in Africa. I believe my feelings about watching CNN on the treadmill have been well-documented here, so I won’t elaborate, except to say that I would prefer some more diverting entertainment. Since about 80% of the population of the cardio room was female, I don’t know why the programming was so skewed to the male demographic.

As I was leaving, I noticed another room off the main cardio room. It had some cardio machines, a few weight machines, free weights, and (of course) five televisions mounted on the wall. It was separated from the cardio area from a glass wall, and I wondered what was special about this collection of equipment. Then I saw the plaque:

Women Only.

Hmmm. Women Only. How do I feel about that?

On one hand, I have a few female friends who say they don’t like working out in the same room with men, and most of them have joined a women-only gym as a result. Some say they feel intimidated by men who seem to know more about weight machines or exercises than they do. Some have complained about the unsightliness or unsoundliness (”all the grunting!”) of men at workout. Personally none of these things bothers me, and it is also quite a while since I have had to worry about men hitting on me at the gym. But I suppose I can see their point, and it does seem like a savvy marketing ploy on the part of this health club to compete with Curves.

On the other hand, at this crucial juncture in feminist history, is it really the time to start re-segregating? Today’s amenity is tomorrow’s ghetto, and once the gyms start instituting purdah, we’re on the slippery slope to A Handmaid’s Tale. And I think it might be hard to run in a burqa. If you’re intimidated by men at the gym, shouldn’t you just do a few more push-ups and get over it? And the gym doesn’t escape responsibility, either: shouldn’t they take pains to make the whole place welcoming to both sexes? (I suppose we won’t have really arrived at gender equality until not only the workout rooms but also the locker rooms are unisex, like on “Battlestar Galactica.” Speaking of…we’ve just started the third season, and, whoa! Starbuck wouldn’t ask for a women’s only room; she would just kill any man who looked sideways at her during a workout. But I digress.)

On the third hand (as my students used to say)…to what channels are the TVs in the “women only” room tuned? I’ll report back.

Tuesday was the day of the Big Race. In the heat of the afternoon, I put on my shiny new shoes, and Dog and I walked over to the registration desk to pick up my number. By the time I got home I was a hot, sweaty, tired wreck, and I also couldn’t deny that my shoes were hurting my feet. I don’t mean they were too tight, or rubbing in the wrong spot, but that they were causing a sharp pain under my left heel and arch. Now, I fear plantar fasciitis more than the Red Manace, halitosis, and Dick Cheney rolled up into one foul-smelling ball, so I reluctantly concluded that I was not going to be able to wear my new shoes for the race, and I prayed that the pain would not persist.

And then, after that, everything that could go right went right. The temperature dropped slightly. The humidity stayed manageable. I was able to drink enough water before the race that I felt hydrated, and yet hit the bathroom at the optimal moment pre-race so I didn’t feel like I needed to pee through the whole thing. My feet did not hurt. My back did not hurt. Nothing chafed, dug, or blistered. I felt a little breathless on Mile 1 and was feeling a little bored and tired on miles 2 - 5, which were on one long, straight road, but after I did the hill at the end of mile 5 and we hit the scenic part of the race, I was really able to relax and enjoy it.

The race, in its 48th year, is a real community event. The route goes right through town — in fact, right in front of my house — and the people who lined the streets to cheer the relatively quick-paced 5K runners and to see the elite cadaverous-looking 10-mile racers were kind enough to hang around to cheer for us, too. I saw so many people I knew. Are you familiar with the extended opening credits of “The Simpsons” where Bart flies through town on his skateboard and passes every major and minor character in the Simpsons canon on the sidewalk? That’s what it was like, for ten whole miles. There was every person I’ve written about in these pages —Jogging Jesus! The fence neighbors! The mayor! The play group! — and many more. There were people with hoses to spray us and people who had set up unofficial water stations and people blaring music and one little urchin who held out a half-eaten popsicle. I wanted to take it, too, because I found I was unable to drink any water from an open cup without choking while traveling at speed, and I was afraid if I slowed to a walk I would never start again.

The funny thing was, since we were so far behind the pack, not only were people cheering us on, but they were cheering us personally. Time after time someone looked directly into my eyes and said, “You can do it! Four miles to go! You’re doing great!” And time after time I felt compelled to say, “Thank you!” because, after all, the person was looking right at me; there was no one else around. It’s not what Joan Benoit would do, but it only seemed polite.

At mile 9 it was getting dark, and I found myself wanting to speed up to finish. A number of the 5K runners were already walking to their cars, and they continued to call encouragement to us. “You can almost smell the hot dogs!” one guy yelled, leaving me to wonder. Was that a euphemism, like “hitting the wall”? “How was the race, Joe?” “Well, Dave, I was great up to mile 9, then I totally smelled the hot dogs.” Then I did start to smell hot dogs, and I envisioned spectators setting up barbecues near the finish line to picnic among the carnage, much like the first Battle of Bull Run. But it was actually the race organizers providing food for the runners. The nausea that accompanied that smell was probably the worst I felt for the whole race, that is until I crossed the finish line and had to bend down to take off my ChampionChip. Hot dogs. Head rush. Whoa.

Checking the race results the next day, I was relieved to see that we were not the very last of the ten-mile racers, but we were last in the Middle-Aged Fat Lady division. I suppose there is a point of pride in running a race as slowly as you could possibly run it without actually walking. The best part, of course, was running through the familiar streets and having people we know hail us like we were real marathoners. What a great memory.

I can almost smell the hot dogs.

Every time I buy new running shoes, I go through this little charade:

1. Vowing to Support Local Businesses, I march downtown to the running store to try on shoes.

2. He never has shoes in my size, a fairly standard 9-wide.

3. I order the shoes on the Internet.

This time was no exception, although I tried really hard to give him my business. “Could you order the shoes?” I asked.

“Oh, no,” he said, “that would take weeks.”

I had mine in a few days.

Whenever I buy new running shoes, I also vow that I’m going to get some color, any color, other than white with blue stripes. They do make running shoes in other colors–not a lot, but some–but never in my size. I don’t get this; why can’t I have hot pink or orange or lime green running shoes, or even white shoes with a different color stripe? When I went on-line I was excited to see that Asics makes my shoes in white with orange stripes, but not in my width. White and blue only. (My training partner wears the same shoes, but hers have yellow stripes. She has enormous feet, and I was amused to see that the yellow shoes are only available in size 12. Can you imagine if other clothing manufacturers started color-coding items by size?)

When my shoes arrived, though, there was a nice little surprise: the tongue was blue. Such a little touch, but one that pleases me whenever I look down on them. Something different!

This reminds me of a story from one of the Little House books. Mary and Laura get to wear ribbons on their pigtails for church, but Mary always has to wear blue ones and Laura pink because their mother says that these are the proper colors for blondes and brunettes, respectively. One morning something happens as they are getting ready for church, and in the darkness and confusion their mother ties the wrong color bows in their hair. Each girl is delirious with excitement at getting to wear the other color. (Obviously, this is before Mary went blind.)

Whenever I recall this story I think how easily children are pleased by some little change in routine. Also, I think about what an uptight woman Ma Ingalls must have been. Enforcing ribbon color protocol on the prairie! Maybe her descendants work for ASICS: “Blue is for wide feet! Yellow is for big feet! Orange is only for normal feet!” and so on.

Maybe Laura was remembering it wrong, though. I tend to color-code Aitch and Minor, but not because of anything I’ve read in an etiquette book. Aitch is quite partial to red, and whenever I buy him something new, I’m mindful of the fact that he’s much more likely to use it if it’s red. Hence, his toothbrush, lunch box, and every pair of shoes he currently owns are red, and Minor’s (just for the sake of differentiation) are blue. I just hope that Aitch doesn’t take up running, because how will I find red running shoes in his size?

This morning, I decided to attempt a ten-mile run. I mapped out the race course on WalkJogRun.Net and then wrote down the directions on a sticky note, because I really didn’t want to make a wrong turn that would extend a 10-mile run into an 11-mile run. Or even a 10.1 mile run. Any extra yardage was pretty much unacceptable, in my opinion. I also noted the locations of a few key mile markers, and then I put the sticky note in the pocket of my running shorts. You know, that little rectangular pocket that gets all sweaty, the one with the fold-over flap to secure the contents, the flap that also makes it difficult to extract anything while you are actually wearing the shorts.

So I ran and ran and ran, trying to recall the mile markers I had recorded, reluctant to wrestle with the note in my pocket. Finally, I noticed I was coming up on the 95 overpass, a location I remembered as the halfway mark. I rejoiced as I hit the middle of the bridge, until I saw that I was running over the spray-painted words, You Will Die Some Day.

Hm, I think the artist missed the ominous note he was shooting for. Some day? Certainly, but with any luck not on this run.

Then I took out my sticky note and saw that the 95 overpass was the FOUR mile mark, not the five. And I did die a little bit. But not all the way!

And I finished the whole damn ten miles without walking once.

Two Fridays ago, my trainng partner and I ran 8 miles, our longest run to date. Afterwards, I felt a little tired, as you do when you push the human body to the outermost limits of endurance. The next day, I felt completely wrecked. I spent most of Saturday in bed, took it easy on Sunday, and still felt dreadful on Monday. It seemed like the kind of thing that could only be arrested by a massive infusion of antibiotics, so on Monday I went to the doctor instead of going for a run.

The doctor asked, “What’s the trouble?”

I said, “You know, it feels exactly like when I had mono in high school.”

He did a physical exam. “Your throat’s not that red, and there are no white patches. You don’t have too much post nasal drip. Your glands aren’t too swollen. You don’t have a fever. Your spleen’s not enlarged.”

I said, “Other than all those things, it feels just like mono. Can you give me some drugs?”

Well, “mono” was the wrong thing to say, because it is a virus, not a bacterium, so he insisted on giving me a blood test. “It’ll be back in two days, and if you’re still feeling lousy we’ll see about antibiotics.”

A week went by in which I could not get the office to return my phone calls. I figured all the tests were negative, but I still felt strangely horrible, which made me really cranky. I resumed my running schedule on Wednesday, thinking if my malaise wasn’t confirmed by medical tests or actual symptoms, I had better power through it.

The doctor finally called me back last night, saying that the test showed a reactivation of the mononucleosis I had my senior year in high school.

Hey! The viruses are having a twenty-five-year reunion, just like my classmates!

I am not pleased by this turn of events. Although it is gratifying to have my House-like differential diagnostic skills affirmed, it sucks to have a lingering illness with no treatment and no measurable symptoms to earn me sympathy.

Reebok has an interesting commercial for running gear airing these days. It cuts between pairs of runners who are jogging slowly enough to carry on conversations. The copy urges us to “run at the speed of chat…run easy.” I suppose Reebok is trying to differentiate itself as the anti-Nike — don’t kill yourself! have some fun! — and while some “real runners” have given them flak for this approach, I will come down on the side of Doctor Mama: running slowly can be good for you. I would even buy their shoes if I made those kinds of purchasing decisions based on the cuteness of the commercial and not on how well the shoes fit my double-wide feet. (Sorry, Reebok. I wear the same Asics as 80% of the running population. Seriously, look down. Everyone has these shoes.)

I have very ambivalent feelings about running with other people. I am always very nervous about falling behind on group runs, and I really like to have the option of speeding up or slowing down at will. My nervousness is kind of like a debilitating form of stage fright. A few years ago I joined a running club, and on the days when a run was scheduled in the evening I’d be half queasy all day just thinking about it.

On the other hand, the most fun I’ve ever had running was with company. Just yesterday morning, I did the first five miles of a seven-mile run with a friend, and the time just flew by. In high school, I sometimes begrudgingly allowed my teammates to push me much harder than I would have pushed myself, leading to amazing endorphin highs. And then there was the Hash.

I started running with the Hash House Harriers in Tunisia. One of my friends in the State Department invited me to a run in Carthage, a beautiful town on the coast famous as the seat of Roman civilization in North Africa. At that point in my life, I would have attended a sewing circle or revival meeting if beer were served and English spoken. And both beer and English were promised. So I went, and I was amazed.

The Hash, which bills itself as a “drinking club with a running problem,” puts on orienteering trail runs. The trail is set by the “hare” before the run, and the runners have to follow marks on the ground (chalk or flour) until the end. The runners gather at the start and disperse in all directions until one person finds an arrow; then all the runners gather together, following the arrows until the next checkpoint. There are sometimes false trails, so if your arrows disappear you need to return to the checkpoint to look for the real trail. Sometimes there are beer stops mid-way, so you might stop and chug a beer and then run on. There are always beer stops at the end. Has virgins (”new boots,” in the parlance) are expected to chug a beer in one gulp at the final beer stop; what you can’t finish, you have to pour on your head.

(Yes, chugging a beer in public while wearing running shorts IS about the most culturally insensitive thing a female could do in a Muslim country. Why do you ask?)

Anyway, with the trail markings and the people and the beer stops and the uncertainty of how far you’re going, or even where, a Hash run is just about the most painless way to crank out five miles that was ever invented.

So when I moved back to the States after the Peace Corps, I joined the Chicago Hash, but it was not the same. I found that US Hashers were a different breed. The Hash has a tradition of raunchiness, a tradition that was held in check by the State Department crew but expressed full-force by the Windy City hashers. It involves off-color “hash names,” ribald drinking songs, sexist attitudes and jokes, etc. Typical frat-party stuff. Unfortunately, the Chicago hashers were committed to these traditions with a humorlessness that bordered on fascism. For example, one guy refused to answer me when I called him by his real name; at the Hash, he would only respond to his Hash name. A special tribunal threatened to kick me out of the club when I refused to follow the rule requiring runners with new shoes to drink a beer out of one of them. The singing of multiple rounds of mildly dirty songs was an officially sanctioned and even enforced post-run activity.

I am not a prude, I don’t think (of course, does anyone ever stand up and say, “Hey! I’m a prude!”), but all the non-running stuff was very tedious, and eventually I decided I was too old for a “Hash name” and the nonsense that went with it. I do miss the runs, though. Is there a Hash out there where you can run under your own name? Maybe I should start one.

Last week, when I was out running, I passed my neighbor whose child only naps in her stroller. It was the third time that week, and suddenly I realized, I’m one of them! I’m a Port City Road Regular, one of those people you always see on the street, for whom every citizen has a private nickname.

I wonder what my nickname is?

Maybe something simple and alliterative, like “Running Rosie” to evoke my red, red face.

How about “The Empress of Ice Cream,” to account for the avoirdupois that persists in spite of all the calories burned on the road?

I hope it’s “Mary Monoboob,” in honor of my fearsome running bra.

As I mentioned before, I am training for a 10-mile race. Notice that I don’t commit to anything as definite as “I am planning to run a 10-mile race.” The race in question is in early August and is infamous for really hot, humid weather. Last year I ran the 5K with the heat index in the hundreds. The previous year there was a little rainstorm just before the start, and then the sun came out and it all turned to clouds of steam. I walked to the corner with Dog to cheer on a friend who was running the 10-mile, and after 10 minutes standing in the tropical atmosphere I couldn’t wait to get back in the air conditioning. I never saw my friend, because she was too far back. Later she told me in all seriousness it was the worst day of her life.

So, racing is optional, but training proceeds. This morning, I had planned to run at 6:30 to avoid the heat. Before I woke up I had a dream that I woke up and it was still dark outside, and I was worried about running in the dark. But when I actually woke up I was shocked to see that 6:30 in these parts already features full sun.

I had planned a route of mostly back roads, hoping to avoid the stress of running alongside a lot of cars. Like most runners, I usually run on the left side so I can see traffic coming, even if they can’t see me. Mid-mile 2 I saw a pick-up truck gunning pretty fast around a curve toward me. I stepped onto the shoulder to give as much clearance as possible, and my left ankle twisted and I went down. I must have done a kind of barrel roll, because I managed to scrape the hell out of my right knee AND my left elbow. The truck never stopped to see if I was OK. I am going to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that he didn’t see me fall.

Then I got up and finished my run, dripping AB negative over four miles of country road, because that’s the kind of badass I am. Also, because it didn’t hurt that much. At least, until I stopped. Then the cuts really began to sting. I ended my run downtown (because the run I had originally planned was 1/4 mile short of six miles, and I figured out that from my house to Starbucks was a quarter mile, all downhill), and when I went into the coffeeshop a woman looked at my wounds and said, “Did you have a wipeout?” And I totally lost a golden opportunity to use the comeback, “You should see the other guy!”