American Pie

In the words of Mackenzie Rice, "there are no gains on the stair mill." I rediscovered this fundamental truth last night at the conclusion of my workout. I decided to eschew my normal cool down exercise, which has me circling the gym looking for a good place to plank, before giving up and heading to the steam room ... and instead, I hopped on the climber.

Once at the top of the machine, I smashed the quick start button, toggled to level 10 and started trudging. Then I remembered! The first step hurt, there would be more to follow. I quickly translated my allotted time for the activity to 6 songs on my playlist. I can do this! My mind began to wander.

My recollection was of my rowing career. I sat in a boat and pulled my guts out for 4 years in high school - I'm not sure to what end. We spent 6 months weight lifting and running for the glory of 2 months of rowing from one side of the canal to the other. I realize I have an affinity for relatively mindless repetitive tasks, but this tested even my superior abilities in this regard. For the first three years I would row from 4 pm to 6 pm every spring evening; near collapsing from exhaustion, I would plunge my fist into the canal and take a sip of the clear, refreshing water in an attempt to revive myself. This was a ritual of mine right up until my final year of high school when in the midst of a conversation with the father of one of my friends, who, when I told him of my after school routine, countered with "yeah I work at a steel mill on the canal, let me give you tip kid, don't drink that water!"

Three songs down and three to go, my legs were just about ready to give out. There is very little kinship among workout enthusiasts. I took a peek around and noticed a veritable sea of people stepping, running, cycling, sliding; all wearing their own headsets and all very focused on the Fox News channel in front of them. In what could very well be a quintessential social act, there is no comradeship, no support, no smiles; every person for themselves. However in this instance, I caught the eye of the young woman beside me whose demeanor conveyed one obvious thought as she looked in my direction, "I don't think that guy's going to make it."

Still one doesn't spend 4 years at something without getting a little better. After a string of last place finishes the Centennial High School Rowing Team's 4 man crew began to gel. For those of you that may not be aware the strongest man in the foursome typically rows at the bow - I rowed at the other end. But don't let this fool you, I had an important role, I rowed stroke, which means that I set the pace for the group. everyone followed my stroke rate, if I let the rate fall, we would be in trouble. In a sport where strength and skills dominates, I had neither, but I was consistent. In the final event of my career the vaunted Henley regatta, we somehow made it through the qualifying round and the semi final and to the amazement of our coach we reached the starting gate of the final for the men's 4. I remember it well, I looked to my left and there were 4 men from Hamilton who looked like they crushed granite in their spare time, then I peeked to the port side and noticed 4 athletes from Vancouver, all six feet 4 with arms that stretched out to the shore and back. I then leaned back at my ragamuffin squad for a pep talk, "Boy's, we ain't going to win this race, but I say we go all out for the first 200 meters and give our coach on the sidelines the thrill of a lifetime," we reached the 200 meter mark in first place, and at the conclusion of the 2000 meter race they sent out a search party to ensure we were still in the lake ... be there in a few minutes.

I have a talent for timing. I hit the sixteen minute mark and the fifth song on my playlist was just wrapping up. Beneath me was a puddle, I was hoping it was sweat. The young woman who had been stepping at the same rate as me still had a lilt in her step and a concerned look on her face. I was less stepping at this point and more slouching over the stairs, hanging on for dear life with my hands gripping the rails to prevent me from completely falling off the machine. But it ain't about grace - in the words of Rocky Balboa, winning is going the distance. So as I took a deep breathe I thought back to my rowing days, I had gone out fast and hung on to the end. One more song, you've got this...

A long long time ago
I can still remember how
That music used to make me smile
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And maybe they'd be happy for a while

But February made me shiver
With every paper I'd deliver
Bad news on the doorstep
I couldn't take one more step

I can't remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride
Something touched me deep inside
The day the music died

So

Bye, bye Miss American Pie

8 more minutes .... the cruelest twist of fate.