Heart Race & Race Pace

You’re never up this early except for something good, like coffee and a pastry. No —don’t think about pastries. No one at this gym is thinking about pastries. How could anybody think about pastries when the smell of sweat, rubber mats, and disinfectant assaults you with every turn?

It’s been so long you set foot in a gym, you’re mildly surprised the peeling plastic keyfob still works. A few months ago, this place was packed with good-looking people squatting, curling, and sweating in front of unforgiving mirrors. Now it’s less crowded and your annual checkup gently nudged you toward more cardiovascular exercise.

This is good for you. It won’t be as fun as a second glass of wine with dinner, but it will help you feel better. Exercise endorphins boost moods. Moderate exercise extends lives. It’s a no-brainer. You step on the treadmill and pop in your headphones to cover the inoffensive house music playing over the speakers.

You researched a treadmill workout for this visit: 12-3-30. Twelve percent incline, three miles per hour, thirty minutes. That seems doable. You can earn an optimal health outcome just by walking up a simulated hill in a temperature-controlled environment, cheered by your favorite songs.

The treadmill starts moving under you and before you know it, you’re already four minutes in. Your heart is pumping. A rivulet of sweat drips between your shoulder blades. You’re alive! You’re healthy! You’re…bored.

Those unflattering mirrors and harsh overhead lights are good for something other than emphasizing the dark circles under your eyes. Your attention wanders to the other gymgoers: the adorable elderly couple who have no idea what they’re doing on the calisthenics machines. The corps of Ken dolls by the free weights, hyping each other up, jacking their biceps and not much else. If Ken is here, that means Barbie isn’t far behind.

There she is, sauntering across the cardio floor. She’s wearing a matching hot pink workout set: high waisted yoga pants and sports bra with strappy back. Her blonde ponytail swishes.

She steps on the treadmill next to you.

Your eyes snap back to your screen. It’s only been nine minutes since you started walking. She starts jogging at a speed double yours. That justifies her confidence in those skintight pink pants. If you ran faster, maybe you’d choose lycra instead of sweatpants. You’re using an incline, and she isn’t. That must count for something.

Whatever. You adjust your treadmill speed to six miles per hour to match her.

This is anything but pleasant. Your quads are burning and you can feel your dilapidated concert t-shirt riding up your back, flapping like a parasail. The treadmill clock reads twelve minutes, so in three more minutes you can pull back on the pace. Or the incline. Or the nausea.

You sneak a peek at your neighbor to see if she’s suffering as much as you are. Beads of sweat pool at the hollow of her throat like a necklace. She has the audacity to run in a sports bra with absolutely no jiggle and a self-satisfied smile on her face.

Actually, she’s smiling at you. She reaches toward her console and taps the up arrow to increase her speed. 6.1 miles per hour.

You’ve been known to accept a free donut, potentially days old, from the office filing cabinet on your way into your cubicle. In all your adult life, you’ve never had a consistent workout program. But you’ve learned that most mandatory things are drudgery. You have to go to work. To pay taxes. To brush your teeth. You have to exercise for your heart, your bones, your lifespan. You can do this, even if you hate it. You can also tap the up arrow to increase your speed.

You’re running up a hill at 6.1 miles per hour. You crank the incline way down, back to nearly flat. At least you’re running as fast as she is.

Her smile blooms and she clicks the arrow again.

You check the clock. Nearly twenty minutes gone.

Damn her, you click your arrow two times. 6.3 miles per hour; hovering around a ten minute mile. It feels easier without climbing up a hill.

Your neighbor matches your speed but doesn’t push it. You’re breathing hard, lungs burning. The treadmill squeals every time your sneakers graze the edge of the belt. Two minutes pass, then two more.

For the final five minutes in your workout, she jumps her speed up to 7 miles per hour. You haven’t run that fast since you were twelve. Before you had hips. Before it was uncool to be sweaty after gym class.

You do it anyway. Not for how you’re going to look when you hit the showers, not even to beat the paragon of physical fitness inconveniently stationed next to you.

You do it because you can.

The blessed treadmill clock ticks over to thirty minutes and you rip the safety plug from the console. The belt immediately slows and you cling to the handrails for dear life. Your neighbor trots on serenely, her neck long, shoulders compressed, and her abdomen tight. She’s poetry in motion, practically hovering over the treadmill.

You stumble across the gym floor toward the locker rooms, prouder than you’ve been in months.

***

Stephanie uses her hot-pink workout towel to mop sweat from her chest. She watches the woman step down from the treadmill next to hers. She wishes she would come back. It doesn’t matter when. Stephanie’s here at this time every day.

That was fun, and it’s rare for her to have that much fun with anyone.

The woman’s treadmill is still winding down, and Stephanie notices the bright red digits.

What discipline, she thinks. It must be so nice to have somewhere better to go after the gym. She probably has people waiting for her.

Stephanie clicks up her treadmill speed again, transitioning out of her warmup and into speedwork. A refrain beats in her head with each footfall. Train harder to look better. A little faster so he’ll look at you that way again. Push yourself to feel something. To feel meaningful. To feel alive.