As the years creep up on you, the body starts to change.
I'm 47, out of shape, and have enjoyed the good things maybe
a little too much.
Longtime readers remember that week in 1999 when we got stuck at the Rio in Las Vegas.
Those were the days, my friend. I thought they'd never end.
You can read the original story here, but here's a summary.
We were in the mood to party.
We drove to Las Vegas in Mrs. BartCop's touring sedan.
We packed like it was 1999.
We had an arms cache.
We had God's Nectar:
Two hand-blown bottles of Chinaco Anejo, a liter
of Grey Goose and whatever.
(Can't find the picture, but you've seen it, right?
The evil Vegas morning sun coming thru the glass wall of the
Rio Suites
with two wounded Chinaco bottles and a Grey Goose cadaver)
Sidebar
There's also a story that needs telling
about some "car trouble" we had,
but bottom line, we were stuck in
the Rio Suites and Casino for five days.
It was torture!
Besides the other temptations, the Rio has
the greatest Mexican food I've ever had.
And I've had 'em all over the world!
And then Johnny Fontane comes along with
his olive-oil voice, and guinea charm.
And she runs off. She threw
it all away just to make me look ridiculous!
And a man in my position can't afford to
be made to look ridiculous!
Now you get the hell outta here!
And if that gumbah tries any rough stuff,
you tell him I ain't no band leader!
Yeah, I heard that story....
Whoops, sorry, had a Godfather flashback.
Alas, five+ days of total bacchanalia took it's toll.
Been trying to shed those extra pounds since then.
That didn't work, and I knew the time would come when I had to
get in shape.
There's a fancy-looking gym near BartCop Manor.
I went by, a couple of weeks ago, asked for a tour.
Shawn was my guide.
Shawn was very nice, very well-toned.
That's a good selling point.
I wouldn't want Zero Mostell to be my tour guide.
Afterwards, me & Shawn talked numbers and he saw I was almost
convinced,
So he threw me three "Guest Passes," and suggested I take a "test
drive."
A few days later, after the pain of my achilles tendon being sprained
wore off,
(which I got running for the plane on that Scary Perry trip report
that remains untold)
I dropped by the gym, and I felt more out of place than Rush
at a Civil Right's rally.
They told me to bring a padlock for the locker.
Duh - I passed that test.
Otherwise, there I was, standing in the gym with the beautiful
people.
The lovely Lynda Von Shtupp was my drill instructor - ...I
mean host.
And when I say lovely, she had the package.
She had the looks.
She had the body.
She had the confidence.
She could've been Miss Hamburg 1998.
She took one look at me and I could tell she'd never seen anyone
out of shape before.
(For the record, I weigh less than Tony Soprano. That's
important.)
So, she looks me up and down, checking out ...my physique and
...my clothes.
Shit, I'd never been to a gym before, ...I didn't know what to
fucking wear.
I had on tennis shoes and sweat pants and a t-shirt with a pocket
to hold the key to my locker.
(I thought I might get nervous and forget my combination, so
I went with a keyed lock)
"Those shoes won't do. Get a pair of Nikes ...right away."
"Yes, Ma'am."
Dumbass me, thinking tennis shoes were made for running.
I mean, tennis players don't run - what the hell was I thinking?
Then she says, "Do you have a good pair of running shorts?"
ha ha
The science and logic might let me rent the 'shoes are
necessary' argument, but she's
going to sell me the idea that I can't run a treadmill without
a 'nice' pair of shorts?
Maybe she thought I had money.
Most older, out of shape white guys have money.
Then she moves right away into the personal insults:
"So, you're here to ...what, ...lose
some weight?"
ha ha
Thanks, Honey, I was just starting to get comfortable.
That Teutonic charm is really effective.
It's been 30 years since my last confession, but I said, "Yes."
She looks at me and says, "You need the
treadmill."
Fine, I expected that.
I wasn't expecting a caravan to Krispy Kreme.
She pulls me over to a mean-looking treadmill and says,
"Get on."
I asked, "Shouldn't I stretch or warm up or something?"
Lynda Von Shtupp says, "Nah, ...not
for what you'll be doing."
That was encouraging. I always like to walk before I run,
so to speak.
So I get on the treadmill and she looks me right in the eye, Swear
to Koresh, and says,
"I want you to run as fast as you can
for at least 30 minutes."
ha ha
Huh?
"I want you to run like you're a nigger
who just robbed a liquor store
and Sheriff Ashcroft and his
hungry Dobermans are chasing your black ass."
(In Oklahoma, they're not always politically correct)
...and I'm like "Christ Lady, I just met you. Why you want
to see me dead?
Cheeses, at least let me write you a damn check before you explode
my heart, moron.
I've been in the gym world 8 minutes, and I'm already smarter
than you.
You're real cute and shapely, Honey, but a good man knows his
limitations."
So the treadmill starts up, and she's looking at me like I'm an Egyptian artifact.
The belt was moving faster and faster, and I've never been on
a damn treadmill before
so it took me a second to get used to the fact that it's not
like running.
When you run, you lean forward.
On a treadmill, you have to stay upright and it's a little weird
if it's your first time.
Plus, she was leaning into me on the treadmill, and her breasts
were overhanging my right handle.
The only way I was going to not run like a girl would
have been to hold the railing as my EQ
got the running specs while leaning backwards, so I was really
in a position to accidentally
get me a handful of Lynda Von Shtupp and I had an automatic
get-out-of-jail card of an excuse.
But my Catholic upbringing overcame me, and I chose not
to get my free grab-o-breast for all
the right reasons. Chief among my reasons for keeping the
Bart beast in it's cage was, I suppose,
the simple fact that I'm not a Chouvanist... ...I'm not
a Ceauvuvanist, ...a Cheeuvan,
...I was afraid she'd kick my ass.
So I'm fast-running in place with all the pedal dexterity of Spaz,
the Lude King.
She looks at me with the sincerity of Bob Barr on Father's Day
and asks,
"Have you ever had any heart trouble?
Do you have heart trouble of any kind?"
ha ha
Here I am, White Man Dancing, ... on the Treadmill of Death,
doing my best not to get thrown like a rube on his first
rodeo.
"You sure you don't have heart troubles?"
ha ha
Stop it!
I'm trying to hand you a year's worth of dues, dumbass.
Can't you lie to me and tell me how studly I'll look in 90 days?
I have nothing to hold onto while this rubber belt is skipping
under me.
Meanwhile, her breasts prevented me from maintaining my balance
and she barks,
"You're not allowed to hold on the the
railings."
I look around, and everybody is holding the damn railings
while they jog.
So, finally, she gets me calmed down and tells me what I need
to do:
I need to run as fast as I can for as long as I can,
" ...at least 30 minutes."
ha ha
Apparently, she's never seen out-of-shape before. I'm her first..
As I look around, most of the others seems to be in pretty good
shape.
I'm working out with the beautiful people, probably wealthy Republicans.
So I start jogging.
After thirty seconds, my legs start to hurt.
After sixty seconds, I'm breathing heavy.
At two minutes, I sound like Ken Starr reading Monica's third
deposition.
At three minutes, I'm puffing like Bill Bennett in the Green
Room on Meet the Whore.
While I'm putting all my efforts into not passing out, I notice
some young babes in their lil' outfits.
It was obvious which girls were here to work out and which ones
were here to be seen.
Isn't that a scream?
Isn't that the wildest thing, the microcosm hierarchy?
You go to any bowling alley or pool hall in the states, and sit
quietly and observe and
you'll soon find out who's "king" of .......the Cushing, Oklahoma
bowling alley.
ha ha
There's always that one guy, or that one gal who "rules" the little
pond.
Oh, and their shit is soooo hottttt.
Oh, what all the other Cushites wouldn't give, ... to be like
him or she*
(*Homage to President Dumbass)
That's just how this was.
It was kinda crowded, so I figure I had a decent cross-section
to observe.
There were the girls who were there to work out, and the girls
who were there to look good.
Not that I have any complaints, mind you...
It's a little easier to run when watching some extra-shapely
female bending, squating and sweating.
You know what's even more fun than that?
(For men only - you women skip ahead)
Sidebar:
When I was trying to survive
on the treadmill, it happened - twice.
A young girl (at my age,
they all are) would walk by, talking to her friend, and she'd stop
and
fuss with her belt buckle
for a second and then drop her damn pants right there in front of
me
and hop on some mechanical
bull looking machine and bump and grind on it.
Sure, there was some lil'
excuse for a thong thingy under her street pants, but unless you've been
monogamous for twenty nine
years, you have no idea how thrilling the simple things in life can be.
So, call me a Doubting BartCop, but I suffered thru five long
minutes.
Took a break, tried to get my balance.
Sidebar:
Don't let them lie to you.
I'm Joe Balance.
If a first time treadmill
made me walk funny, it's not my imagination.
Lynda Von Shtupp musta
wanted me dead.
Always get used to the treadmill
before you go cross country with it.
I go another five, ...break, ...another five, ...break, ...and
another five.
I was sweating worse than President Smirk playing "Truth or Dare"
After about 30 minutes total, I checked out.
Good thing, too.
That was Friday, here it is Monday and I can almost walk upright
again.
Lesson: Don't always trust the "experts."
Right now, I'm more sore than Laura the Unloved on a Monday in 1985.
More In the Gym coming
soon, when I can walk fully upright.
Installment Two could be Wednesday.