A health club gym is a place to have fun (but don't tell anybody).
When the treadmill suddenly started moving, I was standing in the middle of the moving belt, randomly pressing buttons on the electronic control panel in an attempt to set my walk to a "saunter" speed.
Hey, I was a guest at the health club that morning. I was allowed to loaf a little. I could plug my ear buds into the sound system and hear the news commentators on the overhead television talking. I wanted to work out, but I didn't want to actually make work out of it.
Besides, when my friend invited me as his guest, he said I was wrong when I answered, "Sure, that sounds like fun."
"There is nothing fun about working out," he said. "I'll bring you to see what the club's got to offer, but you've got to promise not to enjoy yourself ..."
So, when the sudden speedy start of the treadmill started my feet dragging behind me and sent my head lurching forward, I felt justified in thinking, "Whoa, falling off the back of the treadmill and bruising something wouldn't be a fun start."
It wouldn't have been a health-improving beginning, either, and getting healthy is a big part of the reason you go to a health club. The word is right there in the name, as an enticement. Few people would go to a "hurt club."
I later told my friend about the incident and he claimed that he often goes away from a health club hurting, without ever having to fall off of anything. But, he, of course, is experienced. I was a novice at workouts.
Trying To Understand
My inexperience is the reason why, I must admit, I didn't immediately understand the "scoring system" of the cardio machines the health club offered.
Oh, I knew they allowed you to set your speed. I put mine on something minimal. I think I was walking at 1 mile per hour at the start. I was barely stepping. If I had been walking outside on my street, I'm sure that people passing me would have thought I'd stopped to talk to my neighbor.
I raised my speed when I saw that the guy walking on the treadmill beside me was striding at 2 miles per hour. I went to 3. He called me, so I bet with my heart and raised him to 4 miles per hour, but he folded. I was smiling when I saw that a jogger on a treadmill in front of me was doing about 8. I didn't have the cardio chips for that.
Another number on the digital display gave an indication about "heart rate." I tried not to look at that one. A third number totaled the mileage I reached, or would have if I'd lasted a mile. I quit at about three-quarters. I was a guest. I didn't want to overstay my welcome.
Moving over to the upright stationary bicycle, which had a game show on the TV, I got myself moving to 6 or 7 miles per hour. My heart rate boosted a little, but my mileage went up, as well. I think I cycled double what I walked. If they hadn't grouped the machines by type, I would have easily passed the jogger on the treadmill, and waved haughtily as I went by him.
I went even faster and farther on one of the reclining bicycles stationed nearby. In fact, I was feeling pretty good about myself until I happened to notice my heart rate number. The digital display said I didn't have one. I was pretty sure it was just the panel malfunctioning, but I panicked when I heard a voice. Was that a brightness on the television screen or was I pedaling toward the light?
"Gary!" my friend repeated, and I took out my ear buds.
He was done on the strength machines and free weights, he said.
"Unless you need to get going, I'll get a little cardio in."
When I said, "No problem," smiled, and claimed "I'm fine," he frowned at the possibility I was indeed enjoying myself. With one last suspicious glance back, he went over to a nearby stationary bike, wiped the plague germs off the seat and handlebars with a disinfected towel, then started to work up a sweat of his own.
Returned To Walking
Well, I'm competitive, but I wasn't about to race a member in his home gym.
Not wanting to waste time going to the weight machines to work on an upper body that, ironically, really wasn't strong enough to build up strength, I decided to go back and give the treadmill a second chance.
I stepped up on a treadmill beside an older lady who came there with a cane. She must have been rehabilitating. So, I'm pleased to announce that I won the digital output competition. She never raised her numbers even when I made a big deal about increasing mine — two or three times. My display panel was beeping and flashing lights like a pinball machine every time I touched the buttons.
I reached my previous mileage faster, I went farther, and I proceeded to walk twice as long. And, according to my machine, I did it all with a continuous heart rate and without hearing any unearthly voices.
Pride got the better of me when I casually stepped off the machine following my slightly slower "cool down" strides.
A guy can get a little unsteady trying to put one foot in front of the other on a firm floor after a brisk walk on a treadmill, but I don't think any of the members saw me almost walk into a wall.