There are times when it is really hard to be a gentleman.
The signs of Spring are everywhere. Trees are showing off their blooms, warming days are getting longer, and I spend every spare moment stomping the living crap out of any weakness in my body. For the past several years, I’ve spent every January through July preparing for climbing whichever mountains my buddies and I have chosen to take on next. Technical mountain climbing requires a high degree of strength and physical conditioning to increase the odds of reaching a summit. In addition, as a climbing buddy likes to point out, the better shape we are in, the more a climb becomes enjoyable and less of a miserable trudge to the top. Between my buddy's wisdom and the gnawing feeling that the years are slowly piling up, I push myself extra hard. I’ve gained a reputation at my gym for being “intense workout guy” who someday will drop dead in the middle of doing something “insane.” I think a lot of people secretly wish to be there the day that it actually happens.
When I’m training for a climb, I reserve every Tuesday for a timed exercise I have lovingly named “Stairs.” I play the sadistic game of Stairs at my local YMCA on the stairway that leads from the basketball court to the mezzanine that overlooks it. The rules of Stairs are very simple. I have to wear a backpack that contains some amount of weight, usually around 25 pounds. At the bottom of the stairway, there is a place in the handrail where I am able to balance a dumbbell, which is usually around 35 pounds. For one hour and one minute, I have to do my absolute best pace climbing up and then all the way down the staircase, with no slowdowns, breaks, or rests. Each time I reach the bottom landing, I pick up the dumbbell, do 3 fast squats all the way to the floor, place the dumbbell back on the rail, then wash, rinse, and repeat. Just for giggles and the extra pounding it gives my calf muscles, I do the whole thing barefoot. The first few minutes of this are deceptively easy; the other 55 are oppressive, raw, and miserable.
Every now and again I have to share the stairs with people, usually women, who are coming or going from one of the many group classes the YMCA schedules in the mezzanine area. Last week I was about a third of the way into my weekly Stairs coma when such a group let out. I’ve begun to suspect that something about body reek makes me literally invisible; I always have to dodge and weave among the women who are oblivious to the sweaty guy who is struggling up the steps while gasping for life. I narrowly avoided body-checking one of them into a crunchy tumble down the steps, which meant I accidentally dared to step inside her little bubble of wonderfulness. Suddenly aware of me, she looked down her nose in visible distaste.
“Do you carry weight in that… thing?” Her snooty tone of voice told me that she obviously didn’t know about the special loving relationship that a man develops over time with his backpack. I decided to ignore the insult and just cordially wheezed out “25 pounds.”
Then she asked something I couldn’t so easily forgive.
“So, is what you’re doing eeeevvveeen effective?” Her pained vocal inflection on the word “even” was something that all men have heard many, many times all the way back to boyhood and our playground days. What it really said was “You’re a stupid dookie-head boy. And I’m smarter than you. And you have no idea what you’re doing. Do you like me? And you’re stupid.” My immediate reaction would not have been any different had she cracked open a can of Extra Strength Instant Irritation.
This is when I first took a closer look at my newfound adversary. While I was sopping wet from head to toe with sweat, I observed that she, on the other hand, must be a master of efficiency in her little yoga class. No evidence of any exertion could be seen anywhere on her, which I guess proves she has achieved some sort of exercise godhood. She was a petite, not completely unattractive 50’s-ish woman with an apparent mid-life crisis that had dressed her up as an 18-year old Barbie. From the few facts I had picked up about her in our brief encounter, I pictured that she had probably left in her wake a vast wasteland of ex-husbands, all of whose fantasies involving her alternated between the one with the bludgeony object and the one with the sharp pointy things. She was accompanied by a girlfriend who was half her age. They could have been twins, except that one was a lot more leathery than the other.
I could practically taste the condescension as they awaited my answer.
Maybe all the trauma I suffered at the hands of evil, stinky girls in grade school still smolders. Maybe I was out of my mind from the physical duress. Either way, I decided to not be cool about it. Men never mature much past 5th grade anyway, so my internal insult engine kicked on to come up with a response both scathing and inappropriate. Putting this woman in her place was going to be the crowning achievement of my day. My indignant rage would be satisfied in a fiery blast that would be both holy and righteous. This woman would never again be able to show her face in the playgr… er, the YMCA ever again!!! I opened my mouth and released the venomous onslaught.
Yet all my fatigued state could produce was a barely audible, croaking whisper: “Yes… yes… very effective…”
The younger girl whispered something in the older lady’s ear, then they both giggled at my expense. With one more contemptuous look over their shoulders, they tossed their hair, bounded down the steps, then resumed their shiny, wonderful lives.
I guess I showed them.
The signs of Spring are everywhere. Trees are showing off their blooms, warming days are getting longer, and I spend every spare moment stomping the living crap out of any weakness in my body. For the past several years, I’ve spent every January through July preparing for climbing whichever mountains my buddies and I have chosen to take on next. Technical mountain climbing requires a high degree of strength and physical conditioning to increase the odds of reaching a summit. In addition, as a climbing buddy likes to point out, the better shape we are in, the more a climb becomes enjoyable and less of a miserable trudge to the top. Between my buddy's wisdom and the gnawing feeling that the years are slowly piling up, I push myself extra hard. I’ve gained a reputation at my gym for being “intense workout guy” who someday will drop dead in the middle of doing something “insane.” I think a lot of people secretly wish to be there the day that it actually happens.
When I’m training for a climb, I reserve every Tuesday for a timed exercise I have lovingly named “Stairs.” I play the sadistic game of Stairs at my local YMCA on the stairway that leads from the basketball court to the mezzanine that overlooks it. The rules of Stairs are very simple. I have to wear a backpack that contains some amount of weight, usually around 25 pounds. At the bottom of the stairway, there is a place in the handrail where I am able to balance a dumbbell, which is usually around 35 pounds. For one hour and one minute, I have to do my absolute best pace climbing up and then all the way down the staircase, with no slowdowns, breaks, or rests. Each time I reach the bottom landing, I pick up the dumbbell, do 3 fast squats all the way to the floor, place the dumbbell back on the rail, then wash, rinse, and repeat. Just for giggles and the extra pounding it gives my calf muscles, I do the whole thing barefoot. The first few minutes of this are deceptively easy; the other 55 are oppressive, raw, and miserable.
Every now and again I have to share the stairs with people, usually women, who are coming or going from one of the many group classes the YMCA schedules in the mezzanine area. Last week I was about a third of the way into my weekly Stairs coma when such a group let out. I’ve begun to suspect that something about body reek makes me literally invisible; I always have to dodge and weave among the women who are oblivious to the sweaty guy who is struggling up the steps while gasping for life. I narrowly avoided body-checking one of them into a crunchy tumble down the steps, which meant I accidentally dared to step inside her little bubble of wonderfulness. Suddenly aware of me, she looked down her nose in visible distaste.
“Do you carry weight in that… thing?” Her snooty tone of voice told me that she obviously didn’t know about the special loving relationship that a man develops over time with his backpack. I decided to ignore the insult and just cordially wheezed out “25 pounds.”
Then she asked something I couldn’t so easily forgive.
“So, is what you’re doing eeeevvveeen effective?” Her pained vocal inflection on the word “even” was something that all men have heard many, many times all the way back to boyhood and our playground days. What it really said was “You’re a stupid dookie-head boy. And I’m smarter than you. And you have no idea what you’re doing. Do you like me? And you’re stupid.” My immediate reaction would not have been any different had she cracked open a can of Extra Strength Instant Irritation.
This is when I first took a closer look at my newfound adversary. While I was sopping wet from head to toe with sweat, I observed that she, on the other hand, must be a master of efficiency in her little yoga class. No evidence of any exertion could be seen anywhere on her, which I guess proves she has achieved some sort of exercise godhood. She was a petite, not completely unattractive 50’s-ish woman with an apparent mid-life crisis that had dressed her up as an 18-year old Barbie. From the few facts I had picked up about her in our brief encounter, I pictured that she had probably left in her wake a vast wasteland of ex-husbands, all of whose fantasies involving her alternated between the one with the bludgeony object and the one with the sharp pointy things. She was accompanied by a girlfriend who was half her age. They could have been twins, except that one was a lot more leathery than the other.
I could practically taste the condescension as they awaited my answer.
Maybe all the trauma I suffered at the hands of evil, stinky girls in grade school still smolders. Maybe I was out of my mind from the physical duress. Either way, I decided to not be cool about it. Men never mature much past 5th grade anyway, so my internal insult engine kicked on to come up with a response both scathing and inappropriate. Putting this woman in her place was going to be the crowning achievement of my day. My indignant rage would be satisfied in a fiery blast that would be both holy and righteous. This woman would never again be able to show her face in the playgr… er, the YMCA ever again!!! I opened my mouth and released the venomous onslaught.
Yet all my fatigued state could produce was a barely audible, croaking whisper: “Yes… yes… very effective…”
The younger girl whispered something in the older lady’s ear, then they both giggled at my expense. With one more contemptuous look over their shoulders, they tossed their hair, bounded down the steps, then resumed their shiny, wonderful lives.
I guess I showed them.
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