Six-and-a-Half

The race is long, and in the end, it’s only with yourself.

Mary Schmich, “Advice, like youth, is wasted on the young,” Chicago Tribune, June 1, 1997

Dearest Rachel –

In this case, the epigraph is only half right. Sure, the race that is life is a bit of a marathon, but in the increment I’m looking at, it’s actually rather short, and getting shorter. Not that this is much comfort in the moment; it’s only when I’ve gone the distance I’ve set out for myself that it proves to be worth celebrating, and relating to you.

But throughout the relatively short time that I’ve been actually going to the gym and working out, I’ve been trying to determine (and from there, push) my limits. Particularly on the rowing machine, since it struck me as the one piece of equipment that forced me to exercise my whole body – arm strength, abdomen, knees, you name it. So I started by trying to row for a mile, or rather, 1,600 meters. At first, it was easy to calculate what I thought my intervals should be; a hundred meters every thirty seconds seemed perfectly reasonable, allowing me to cover the distance in eight minutes. But over time, I realized I could shave almost five seconds off the interval time, and an entire minute off of the whole distance. Theoretically, I suppose I could simply row for the same eight-minute period, and see just how much farther I could get, but quite honestly, getting that distance covered faster allowed me to get it all done that much quicker, and I realized I was fine with that. Besides, compared to the eight-minute mile, I was burning that many more calories the faster I went even without doing so for any extended period of time (about a ten percent increase, from ninety to a hundred, give or take a calorie or two); there wasn’t any particular need to prolong the agony that much further.

And I have to admit, it is an agonizing process, when you’re competing against yourself, and the clock you’ve set up in your head. I do occasionally see others using the rowing machine when I’m on the exercise bike or the treadmill, and I can see they’re not pulling with anywhere near the same speed or vigor that I’d been earlier on. So maybe for them, it’s not so awful as I make it for myself. At the same time, I expect that it’s more of a chore than a competition for them to deal with; they’re not motivated to go all-out in any attempt to cover X distance in Y time like I am, so they don’t try as hard, and they don’t burn anywhere near the calories I do.

At the same time, of all the machines I work out on, I confess that it’s the one I spend the least time (and it shouldn’t surprise you that I burn the fewest calories) on it, because the exertion is so much more than on the others. Sure, a hundred calories in seven minutes is impressive (if I’m averaging a hundred every ten minutes overall, I consider it a good workout), but I can only keep that pace for so long, and a mile (or rather, 1,600 meters) is quite sufficient in terms of a finish line. So, that’s as far as I’m willing to push myself in terms of distance. The only remaining question for myself is how fast I can go, and how soon I can get it over with.

Lately, I’ve been noticing that, if I do a little bit of weight training beforehand, particularly with regard to my arm strength – a dozen reps or so on the lat press, likewise with chest presses, and finally with a few curls – I can pull the rower farther and faster, as least at first. With a decent jump at the start, I could trim my time that much further… but could I keep it up long enough to bring my mile down by a full half-minute?

Theoretically, it should be a short jump from a consistent 25 second interval to this particular mark; one-sixteenth of six-and-a-half minutes is 24⅜ seconds each, as it so happens (which I just happened to look up now, after the fact). However, the fact is that I knew that I would not be able to maintain my starting pace, but would inevitably find myself slowing down as my arms and knees began to tire; consequently, I would need to start at a considerably faster pace, in order to give myself room to wear out.

I couldn’t quite make the first hundred in twenty seconds, but managing two hundred in forty-five felt sufficient, and I probably could have managed to continue for another two hundred at that rate… if it weren’t for my phone ringing. I pulled up short; thankfully, the machine stopped recording the passage of time once I set the rowing handle in its cradle while I fumbled to retrieve the still-ringing phone from my pocket.

“Hello, caller number fifteen,” yes, it had been a fairly light day thus far, following the holiday. “You’re on; what do you want to sell me?” Unusually, this fellow decided to press forward with his call, heedless of my panting into the speaker already.

“Hello, my name is Ezekiel;” an odd name for an Indian fellow, I know, but I’ve gotten used to them using what they seem to think American names are like in order to establish a rapport with their anticipated victims. “How are you doing today?”

“All right, but you caught me in the middle of my workout.”

A brief pause, followed by a quizzical “How’s that again?”

“I’m doing fine, apart from the fact that you’ve interrupted my workout. Now, get on with it; what is it you’re wanting to sell me?” There’s nothing like an impatient tone for discouraging spam callers from continuing the conversation; he promptly hung up on me. Now, if only I could keep them from calling in the first place.

But no, I could barely get another two hundred meters without another similar call. This time, I’m pretty sure I sounded that much more irritated, because whoever it was didn’t even bother to inquire after me, but hung up without so much as a word. Such a waste of time and effort.

But I had been given a moment’s rest each time, allowing me to re-start at a slightly renewed level of strength, thereby making up for the handful of lost seconds. As a result, I didn’t feel myself burning out until well into my fifth minute (as opposed to feeling it right about at the five-minute mark), at which point the end was only two hundred meters away. But when you’re going at such a pace, the pain starts to build up quickly; even though I had nearly a full minute to cover those last two intervals, I was already feeling it. It didn’t help that the rowing bar was getting covered in sweat (don’t worry, I wiped it off after I was done, as per usual), thus causing me to nearly lose my grip. I did what I could as fast as possible, and this was the final result:

But I’d made it; a six-and-a-half minute mile. I know I hadn’t exerted myself like he had, but for just that moment, I felt like Roger Bannister after running his four-minute mile.

And, like him, I don’t know whether I will be able to surpass that mark in the future; I certainly don’t see myself getting down to, let alone under, six minutes – twenty-two seconds per hundred meters for the full distance? Yeah, I don’t think that’s gonna be possible. But I’d passed a literal milestone, and I figured I might as well tell you about it, so you can be happy with me about it. Not only that, but when I got home, I stepped on the scale, and discovered I’d finally crossed under my license weight. It won’t hold, of course, since that was primarily water weight lost with sweat, but it’s yet another milestone crossed.

Anyway, I think I’m going to go and get myself some well-earned rest. Keep an eye on me, honey, and wish me luck. I’ve done well for myself today, but I could always use a little bit more.