The 10 Minute Mile

tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19678408.post-71612899500890867562007-08-22T13:54:00.000-05:002007-09-25T22:22:28.463-05:00The 10 Minute MileLately, I’ve been exercising like a, well, not like a fiend… exercising more like a guy who fucking hates to to get off his TV'd ass but kinda has to because he can feel the touch of his under breast rubbing his belly arch. It’s that exact moment the first bead of wetness forms between my reams of skin that I have to peel ass from the leather sofa and drag it all downstairs to the basement to that motherfucking treadmill. And I dread it even more now that I have a sucky pair of sneakers down there that I discounted for myself at Wal*Mart. I don’t spin the tread belt enough to justify a Nike or Converse or whatever the cool-ass brand-namer is these days. I’m not hip that way. Sorry. I ain’t. I'm all about cheap. And... The sneakers are pure white. Pure white. Like if you took a jug of bleach, then bleached the jug of bleach with another jug of bleach. That’s how white these fucking things are. I can only use them on the treadmill in the basement because Wifey is way-way embarrassed to see me out in the World with them tied to my peds. Sorry. But, baby, they do the trick. They stay on my feet. Let me back up. Before the new shoes: 7 months ago, exercise... cardio was a 12 minute walk. Walk? No. A stroll. A 12 minute stroll. Like a Victorian millionaire in the goddamn park. So, I plugged back salads and ½ portions of whole foods to lose the walking weight. I downed 30 pounds after a couple of months. And strolled up to a struggled jog. That’s when I bought the new sneakies. Pure white. Virginal. A new beginning. The first night I got them, I was like a 6 year old in a new pair of Keds. GONNA MAKE ME RUN FASTER, MOM!!! Yeah, I wast totally 6’ing the jog. I slipped them on and tied them up. I was going to run this bitch. Not too fast, though. The treadsy is in the basement. Low ceiling and pushed back right up against the drywall of the new bathroom. One lost breath, one false face wipe with my tanktop and I’m going head up, then crack backwards into the greenboard and shitty framing (I did). Cuz I’ve backended the wall before… going slow… oh, shame... So… Sneaks on! Treadmill rolling. Headphones in. And I belt. PAT-PAT-PAT. My feet were pounding on this fucking thing. Whoo-hoo! PAT-PAT-PAT. I was a-moving. And... stop... 24 minutes. 1 mile! 1 mile?!? What the fuck is this?!? Why 1 goddamn mile? I’m in shape, now! Right? “I’m in shape, hon… right!?!!” I yelled up through the cracks of the upstairs sub-floor. “What,” she screamed back. Dejected… “Nothing.” Just nothing. Dejection dedicated me to 2 months of banging the Jesus out of this treadmill. I was determined to be running miles like a motherfucker. Like a motherfucker! So, for days I increased my stamina. For weeks I slid the dial up for speed. For months I added more muscle. And, oh baby, I was doing it. Doing this bastard with less and less effort. The Red Hot Chili Peppers in my earbuds and beating the living shit out of that rubber belt. PAT-PAT-PAT. CLUMP-CLUMP-CLUMP. Faster and faster. The white of my sneakers a blur beneath me. (Because, YES, I could see them now. Gut was gone!) PAT-PAT-PAT. CLUMP-CLUMP-CLUMP. BANG-BANG-BANG. “Tomorrow I’m timing this…” “What?!?" I have to learn to talk softly when my headphones are on. She can't hear me up there. “I can’t hear you all the way down there?” See. “Nothing, baby.” “What?” “Nothing!” “What?!?” “I said: NOTHING!!!” That night I showered and went right to bed. RIGHT TO BED!!!! The next day I was getting up bright and chipper, sliding on those pearly new whites canvas jobbies and running a motherfucker of a mile. And I did. I got up at 8 AM – ON A SATURDAY, MAN! – and put on those shitty white sneakers. I cranked the treadmill up to 7 and – PAT-PUT-PAT!!! CLUMP-PAT-CLUMP!!! BANG-BANG-PUMP!!! I was running. RUNNING!!! COOKING IT!!!! I WAS A BEAST!!!! ¼ mile. DONE! BANG! Another ¼ mile. DONE! POW! Another 1/4… “Fuck. I’m getting pooped.” I looked at the drywall behind me. “Shit. I don’t want to hit that…” “What?!?” “NOTHING!!!” But it came out "NUH-TAH" because 7 was way too fast for me and these shitty sneakers. PAT-PAT-TRIP!!! Fuck, the drywall. CLUMP-CLUMP-FUCK THIS… “I can’t…” I grabbed the bars on the treadmill. And, really, you can’t be doing that. You can’t be grabbing the bars when you’re running anything past 6.8. “Damn, my under-pit. I just ripped my fucking under-arm!” "WHAT?!?" ¾ miles... FEH-PUH... done... pow... poo... egh... I was tired, man, and getting sweatier and sweatier with each PAT-CLUMP-BANG of my shitty, white sneaks. My ears were filling with sweat like a cesspool of piss after a party. “Oh, I though I was in shape…” “What?!?” “Fucking NOTHING!!!” And THAT came out: "Fuh-kah nah-tuh." Fuh-kah nah-tah? What the fuh-kah is THAT?!? My earphones were sopped in sweat and no longer worked. I'm flumping away on this goddamn treadmill to the muffles of Pearl Jam singing… something… I checked the speed. “It does say 7. Fuck!" I checked my laps: 3.91. "Oh, God, is this mile almost fucking over?" Uh-gah, ih thih mah ahmust fuh-cah oh-vuh...? Drool. Drool just dripping onto my sopped tanktop. And my lungs, my lungs were so wiped out and filled with basement molds, my ribs were trying to break free from my chest skin. 3.92 laps… and… "Uh-gud! Kuhl muh!" Kill me, now! 3.94... and... eventual... 4. And... DONE! pow. I checked the time. 10 minutes. Exactly. Exactly 10 minutes. YAHOO!!!! YES!!! I am the fucking king of this treadmill!!!! I FINALLY ARRIVED!!! VICTORY!!! “Baby,” I screamed as I jogged up the stairs, “I just did a mile in 10 minutes!” “Awesome. How long was it taking you before?” My dick and balls, actually, cavitied into my body in shame, “35 minutes…” “But you did in 10 today. That’s great, baby!” “Yeah. I feel really good right now. Really good.” “I’m glad, honey. I'm really proud of you. Go wash up and we’ll have some breakfast before Tiny gets up.” “Yeah. Yeah.” And like a little girl, I skipped to the bathroom. I smiled at myself in the mirror for a few seconds. Pride. Just pride. Feeling good. Awesome, actually. I was, finally, in shape. The 8 months of struggle had paid off. I looked down to get a look at my shrunken tummy and was side-tracked to top of the toilet tank. “A new Men’s Health issue?” The magazine must of come in the day before. I turned on the shower and flipped through it as the water heated up. “Ha.” I love coincidence. The page I flipped to was an article of determining what kind of shape you’re in. One of the showcased columns was: Running. I, confidently, began to read because, for the first time, I was going to be able to relate to this fucking magazine from a success standpoint rather than a goddman "shame on you, fatso how-to” manual. Running. Yes. Here: The 6 minute mile is the barometer of a good run: You’re in shape. “Yeah. Blah. Blah. Blah. We all know. 6 minute mile. Good for fucking everyone and their washboards.” 8 minute mile: There’s work to be done. Work to be done? That's fast. Hey, where is this article headed? 10 minute mile… Please, say: Congrats, Rick. Job well done, Rick. Or, at least, keep up the good jog, Rick. 10 minute mile: "You are over-weight!" NO!!! "Slow. " HOW DARE YOU?!? "And OUT OF SHAPE!!!! " NO!!!!!!!! CRASH AND BURN. “Goddammit!!!” “What?!?” “Nothing.” And, as I stood under the hot water in the shower, baptising, cleansing myself of Original Denial, it dawned on me: "And I'm stuck with those ugly fucking sneakers."<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/19678408-7161289950089086756?l=rcrowley0307.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Oh My Lot!http://www.blogger.com/profile/00343512123201956037noreply@blogger.com2