Off to see the Wizard

I walk inside and immediately the smell of chlorine hits my face. It's been a while since I've been here and I've missed it. I walk down the corridor by the pool, make a left turn and go up the steps.

I hit the men's bathroom and shrug off my coat and hat and put them up on the hook. I feel excited. I know I've been dragging ass lately, but I know that when I get up there and start running I am going to feel better.

I run the patch on my arm and I curse lent. My tongue is a bit sore and my teeth feel grimey from all the suckers. I experience a cacaphony of stuff right there in the bathroom. I pull up my pants and I'm on my way up. To the top room. I open the door and immediately things are alive.

It's like down there it's dim and the lights are week and it's relaxing. The chlorine in the water and the heat from the spa creates a lovely warm atmosphere as you come through the door.

But up here it's bright and loud. People bustle about their business, lifting weights, riding the bikes, running the treadmill.

I look around tonight and it's alive. Surprising considering I'm there an hour and a half before they close. I would think at this moment people would be scarce, but there's more people here tonight than I've seen in a while.

I step up, unwind my mp3 player, and push the button. I think to myself that I'd much rather be outside doing this, but it's 10 degrees and snow is flying outside. Perhaps one day I won't let that stop me, but not today. Today I am trying to restart a habit and quit one at the same time and I need to coddle myself as much as I can.

I'm walking. I go nowhere. I'm walking. I go nowhere. I'm walking. I go nowhere.

Fuck.

That's what I'm supposed to be doing. I'm supposed to be going nowhere. That's the point. I'm looking at the wall and glancing up at the TV every once in a while. Some gay ass girly bullshit is on the TV. I raise the volume on my mp3 player.

10 minutes. I crank up the speed and crank up the music. I am running. I feel my legs underneath me and they feel great. I'm looking straight into a wall with some posters on it, but my mind has me out running in the woods or in a field; I can almost smell the brush and the leaves and cool fall air.

12.5 minutes. I stop running. I'm surprised that I haven't lost any progress in the past couple of months. I haven't done this for a while, but this is pretty much where I was at the last time I was here. A quarter of a mile without stopping. For a heavy smoker with shit for lungs, that's not too shabby. One day it will be a mile though. Then 5 miles. I think about that thought with an air of giddiness. Something about running calms me. It soothes me. I have no idea why, but it does. I wish I had discovered that sooner. I could be out running through the trails right now. I might never have picked up that first cigarette if I had know that underneath it all was the heart of a runner.

I curse the patch on my arm.

20 minutes. I'm running again. I imagine this time that I'm running through the amazon and that I am a jewel thief and I have just stolen the Queen's diamonds. I imagine that I am shooting behind me and the cops are on my tail, but I don't care. I have the diamonds for now and that's all that matters. That's all that matters.

25 minutes. I change the elevation and suddenly I get the illusion that I am walking uphill. Oh goody.

30 minutes. I'm running again. This time I imagine that I am a circus midget and I am being chased by a herd of buffalo. I smile. I curse the patch on my arm. I glance at the faggy show on TV and shake my head. My legs are like steel pillars. I feel the heat and my feet are starting to show me why you don't take months off from doing this. A dull ache roars through my foot after 2 more minutes of running and I am forced to slow down.

35 minutes. My hand swings into the emergency stop switch (although I don't know how I pulled that off considering where it's located). I am jarred to stop and I look around goofily, hoping nobody saw that. They didn't. I put the switch back on and hit start. I just lost all the data from the first part of my running. Great. Ah well.

39 minutes. I'm running again and this time I can feel the burn in my legs. And it's not a good burn. It's the struggle to keep my legs moving burn. I eek out 2 minutes and realize that it's time to wind this session down.

42 minutes I put the elevation up again. 43 minutes it's as high as it can go. 44 minutes it's flat again. 45 minutes I slow down considerably and begin the process of cooling down. I wipe my brow...it's soaked with sweat as is my shirt. I feel good. My legs are tired and I little bit like lead. I realize that I took it right up to my limit and maybe a little further than I should have on my first day back, but I feel good. The music in my ears tells me not to be afraid. I glance at the TV and cringe. There's Miley Cyrus. Yipee Ki-Yah.

The music stops. I stop. I wipe off the treadmill and walk over to another room, where I do 20 situps with the cruncher thing (that's what I call it, the "cruncher thing" because I have no fucking clue what any of these machines are called and I really don't care. All I know is that this machine helps you do a smooth sit up without craning your neck. I envision my abs of steel. I laugh at the thought.

I wipe of the cruncher and I walk out. I wave bye to Nancy as I go past and open the door. I walk down the step into the warm pool room. If I had more time I'd take a few laps around the pool. But alas, they will be closing in a half an hour and I don't want to rush with that.

I grab my coat off the hook and throw it on the bunch behind the sink. I take out some paper towels and wipe the sweat off my head. I feel good. My lungs are burning, but I'm taking them back. I'm taking them back. I'm taking them the fuck back.

It's a good day. A new day. And I feel good. I feel good.