November 13, 2007
There's a sizable group of runners who read this blog. There's a large group of non-runners who read this blog as well. In an effort to cater to both groups, I try as hard as I possibly can to keep the running related posts completely nontechnical and universally funny. Pictures generally help.
So here, my friends, is Marathon Training: Incident #5--complete with fabulously detailed illustrations to enhance your reading experience. Enjoy!...
Last night, I decided to head to the YMCA for a six mile run on the treadmill. Yes, it's true, I hate to run on the treadmill. But do you know what I hate even more than doing my mileage indoors? Missing the skin-tight, shiny outfits on Dancing with the Stars--the thought alone puts my stomach into knots.
I wasn't about to miss Marie Osmond shaking her thang to the rumba in sexy, navy-blue sequins, so I opted to combine my two activities.
I plugged my headphones into the sound jack, set the miniature television to the correct angle, and I was happily on my way. The show distracted me beautifully, and all was well...until Cameron and Edyta began to dance the waltz. Just as they were about to execute their first dramatic dip, I had the strong and sudden urge to pass some gas.
Before I let loose, I evaluated my surroundings. The treadmill to my right was empty and the treadmill to my left was occupied by a man with headphones. I figured it was safe, so I let her rip (see Figure 1).
After I did the deed, it occurred to me that there might be a person on the stairmaster directly behind my treadmill. I did a quick glance over my left shoulder, and sure enough it was occupied.
I immediately recognized the middle-aged man who was stepping his way to fitness--I see him at the gym several times a week. He seems to be about 55 years old, always wears t-shirts from the Dallas Symphony Orchestra, and his glasses make him look like a stereotypical smart person. Call me crazy folks, but I'm quite certain that people of this social stature never, ever fart.
Much to my dismay, the man on the stairmaster wasn't wearing headphones, so I'd have to try and keep the gas silent for the remainder of my workout.
It didn't work out so well (see Figure 2).
Well, I thought it was going well until this happened:
That's right. I couldn't hear myself honking, because I was plugged into my headphones. I only found out because a tall, lanky, poorly-mannered teenager stopped behind my treadmill, heard my wicked toots, and vociferously summonsed his friend over to join the fun.
Apparently, my assumption was incorrect--deliberate, silent farting is not a part of my skill set. I will adjust my resume accordingly.