New Attitude

---Friday, October 10th---

I tow my unmotivated, demoralized lug of self into the gym for yet another day of cardio-lameness. I’m starting to recognize the regulars. Sweatpants dude. Blonde lady with Texas flag running shorts. The 56-year-old in the Under Armour body suit. A guy who only goes backwards on the Arc Flex. Change it up, dude, change it up.

I pass a heavyset fellow I see a lot hunched over a Stairmaster.

“Here comes Mr. Mopeypants," he mutters under his breath.

I climb onto the only available stationary bike, enter all the useless information in the machine and start the plodding, my head down, already defeated.

La di da, this is lame, I think to myself. I’m so not into this.

Woe is me.

Bombarded by “The View” with the sound off on the tv in front of me, I have no choice but to retreat into my thoughts. I think about some of my recently injured fellow runners. Many of them had to stop their training, pull out, and hope for a spring marathon. A few are getting on a road bike, others are—I can’t believe I am even saying this—aqua jogging. It's so frustrating when injuries happen even though you’re in control and doing everything right. Recently a guy hobbled into a certain retail store where I work on occasion in a massive crazy looking cast up to his knee.

“What the heck happened?” I asked.

“Ruptured achilles playing soccer,” he replied matter-of-factly.

“Wow, that must have hurt. What does it feel like when it ruptures?”

“Like you’ve been shot.”

“Oh. I see.”

“It’s crazy, you can’t stand up. You try, but you just fall forward on your face.”

“Yikes. How long will it be before you can play again?”

“I’ll have the cast on for 12 weeks and then I’ll start rehabilitation. At least six months.”

“Man that sucks.

“Yeah, it’s a bitch, but I’ll get over it.”

Pause

“Where are your wind chimes?”

That man is lacking a functional Achilles tendon. And here I pedal. With a calf strain. BOO HOO. Poor Robert. I have to ease up for two weeks. WAAAAH. Ooh, I think the pedaling might be hurting my calf, somebody call the wambulance.

I need an ATTITUDE ADJUSTMENT.

I’m sick of this little pity party I’m throwing for myself. I’m turning this frown upside down. I am so darn lucky to have run as many marathons as I have without serious injury. I’m still headed for New York, I’ve just hit some bumps, that’s all.

I’m going to shoot for 22 tomorrow and if it works out, cool. If it doesn’t, I’ve still got three weeks to chill. And maybe it won’t be the marathon of my dreams, but it’ll be my 11th and it’ll be in New York. If I’m five minutes off my goal, I’m still a winner. Ten minutes . . . that goes in the win column too. Fifteen . . . okay, I will probably fall into a mild depression, but I’m confident therapy can pull me out of it. No, this is it: If I finish and my leg doesn’t fall off, that’s in its own way a victory.

I get so revved up about all this I increase the resistance level on my bike from “6” to “8.” After 40 minutes I bound off, and, high on my new attitude, try to lead the room in a round of “Nyo Ingwe.” There is a struggle, and people are getting it confused with the 1961 pop hit, “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.”

“No, the chorus is ‘Nyo Ingwe’ not ‘Wimoweh.’ That’s a completely different song, dudes.”

“ . . . in the jungle, the mighty jungle . . . “

“STOP! You are ruining the whole thing. That’s not the song!”

“ . . . Wimoweh, Wimoweh . . . “

“This is terrible. That is the wrong song. I’ve completely lost my patience with all of you. Enjoy ‘The View.’ I’m going to go work on my glutes.”

I race out of the room, passing the heavyset guy on the Stairmaster, who is standing up and crooning in falsetto, “ . . . the lion sleeps tonight . . . ."