Trentathelon
I have hit a fitness plateau at the gym and have been lacking in motivation to get up off my ass and work out. What do I do when this happens? I make new goals. My latest one is a doozy!
I will run a triathlon before I turn 30, which is admittedly not as far away as I'd like, but that makes my goal that much better.
There are, however, two problems with this goal:
- I have not ridden a bike in any serious capacity since the eighth grade.
- I am not, nor have I ever been much of a runner. At all.
Since it's not really a great time for lapsed cyclists to relearn the ropes, I thought I'd tackle the second problem first. I have a program on my iPhone that claims it can get me to run a 5k in nine weeks. I am on week two and so far my problem is not so much the running (which is, right now, more like brisk walking interspersed with short bursts of jogging), it is the treadmill. It is my nemesis.
The problem with the treadmill is that you have to pay attention when you run. You have to keep a steady pace, or adjust the settings to compensate. If you don't you will fall off. Trust me. I should know. My last running session went a little something like this:
I was on the treadmill, jogging along, listening to my David Starkey audiobook on the history of the British monarchy (yes, I like to nerd out while I jog) when the sound conked out. Now, I keep my iPhone conveniently strapped to my arm while I jog. This means I should be able to adjust it without breaking stride, right?
Wrong.
I don't remember doing it, but I must've stopped running, because the next thing I know, I feel myself being ejected off the back of the treadmill. Now, when you're being ejected from something, it seems to be human instinct to hang on for dear life. In the case of treadmills, it is a bad instinct. All that happens when you try to hang on to the treadmill is that you repeatedly bash your legs into the back of the conveyor belt before finally being thrown back into another treadmill three feet behind you.
I managed to do all of this in front of at least twenty extremely fit ladies in matching designer gym outfits who run on treadmills like they were born to it. (My gym gear, by the way, never matches. Sometimes even my socks don't match, if I pack in a hurry.) To rub salt in the wound, I now have a bruise roughly the size and shape of the Italian peninsula on my shin.
And I'm going back tomorrow, because I'm either stubborn or a sadist, I haven't which. It's probably both.
I will run a triathlon before I turn 30, which is admittedly not as far away as I'd like, but that makes my goal that much better.
There are, however, two problems with this goal:
- I have not ridden a bike in any serious capacity since the eighth grade.
- I am not, nor have I ever been much of a runner. At all.
Since it's not really a great time for lapsed cyclists to relearn the ropes, I thought I'd tackle the second problem first. I have a program on my iPhone that claims it can get me to run a 5k in nine weeks. I am on week two and so far my problem is not so much the running (which is, right now, more like brisk walking interspersed with short bursts of jogging), it is the treadmill. It is my nemesis.
The problem with the treadmill is that you have to pay attention when you run. You have to keep a steady pace, or adjust the settings to compensate. If you don't you will fall off. Trust me. I should know. My last running session went a little something like this:
I was on the treadmill, jogging along, listening to my David Starkey audiobook on the history of the British monarchy (yes, I like to nerd out while I jog) when the sound conked out. Now, I keep my iPhone conveniently strapped to my arm while I jog. This means I should be able to adjust it without breaking stride, right?
Wrong.
I don't remember doing it, but I must've stopped running, because the next thing I know, I feel myself being ejected off the back of the treadmill. Now, when you're being ejected from something, it seems to be human instinct to hang on for dear life. In the case of treadmills, it is a bad instinct. All that happens when you try to hang on to the treadmill is that you repeatedly bash your legs into the back of the conveyor belt before finally being thrown back into another treadmill three feet behind you.
I managed to do all of this in front of at least twenty extremely fit ladies in matching designer gym outfits who run on treadmills like they were born to it. (My gym gear, by the way, never matches. Sometimes even my socks don't match, if I pack in a hurry.) To rub salt in the wound, I now have a bruise roughly the size and shape of the Italian peninsula on my shin.
And I'm going back tomorrow, because I'm either stubborn or a sadist, I haven't which. It's probably both.