My cohort's previous blog compelled me. I had to get a run today. Though a myriad of distractions devoured whole hours of my day; I finally pushed my way through the YMCA doors at about 8 p.m. The rain kept me from seriously entertaining the notion of running outside. The interior of the YMCA had undergone a fairly extensive remodeling and I found myself in what looked like a big box discount exercise equipment showroom.
Even the large whiteboard used to sign up for cardio equipment had changed. It required a moment or three of serious study before I felt I understood the complexities of the system. I swore the new whiteboard made time a dependent variable somehow. This was not the place I'd taken my unsteady first steps as a runner 2 years ago. This was an alien landscape.
Confident I'd initialed the correct squares; I stalked toward a dormant incline trainer. I took that familiar step up and hit the large green "Quick Start" button. A slender strip of white paper affixed just above the display screen distracted me so thoroughly that I stumbled forward as the treadmill awoke. The white paper demanded to know: "Are you signed-up for this machine??" The double question mark irked my writing sensibilites. That is not an appropriate demonstration of emphasis.
I jogged on and the little white strip persisted in crying out it's single angry edict. I tried to draw myself inward and focus on my breathing. It persisted. I tried to imagine the energy flowing through my body. The note insisted I justify my presence. I tried to concentrate on my muscles moving efficiently and rhythmically. The little white strip of paper dereed itself the magistrate of the treadmill and lord over all who would dare to step foot on it.
And then, as if through devine intervention, my mp3 player played Preston Epps' Call of the Jungle. This nearly 13 minute journey is less a song and more a sampling of the most primal thoughts of the human mind. Glancing at the electronic clock, I reasoned that this song would take me all the way to the end of my run.
Aroused by the music, my lesser evolved feelings crawled out from the shadows of my psyche. Their shining and predatory eyes glared at the paper. They would not be ruled by words. My run is my dominion.
Within my run, I am the only soverign. My runs have ruled through the streets of Oshkosh, Chicago, and Monterey. I have conquered pavement, concrete, gravel, and ornamental shrubbery. I've marked the borders of my empire with Brooks shoeprints. As I move through the streets, I am a prince.
But here in the obscene and absurd space of the Y, I am lorded over by whiteboards, scraps of paper, a clock, and the machinations of the other denizens. This is not the freedom and power of my run. This is not an escape from the endless numbers which shape the course of my life. This is a twisted compromise.
I should have run in the rain. I would rather rule in the rain and dirt than struggle in dry and flourscent lit sterility.
"Are you signed-up for this machine??"
No.
