Pain and suffering at VU redux.

BRRRR.....
I've discovered the secret to making my exercise sessions at Victoria University even more miserable than before. I thought that, perhaps, I'd managed to plumb the depths of human misery over the last couple of weeks, and boy was I wrong.

1. Take one serving of excruciating pain as long absent exercise makes its return and takes its toll on someone who, at best, can only be described as "hemi-demi-semi-muscular";
2. Add rain;
3. Add wind;
4. Remove anything remotely resembling heat from the environment;
5. Stir, chill and serve.

Yup, everything tells me that summer is gone and winter is giving me a sneak preview of things to come whilst I'm making my (reluctant) way to last night's training session. The only thing colder than the ride to last night's serving of pain with Jennifer and Krushna was the ride home again.

MORE BRRRRRR....
Can someone please explain why it seems that purchases of Tupperware are more important to the household (and my life, apparently) than purchases of sundry items of clothing, like rain pants? Got to work this morning after being stalled in traffic on Dynon Road that was more intensely clagged than is normal just in time to be utterly drenched in rain and hail that hit with a thud. It's more than 3.5 hours since I made my (soggy) way into the office - Thanks to everyone who laughed at me on the way in, I appreciate it - and my underpants are still damp from the ride. Too much information? Really? I thought that blogs and other aspects of Web 2.0 were made for personal minutiae like this. You'll just have to sit through your discomfort (in much the same way that I have to sit in mine) until it passes.

I'm stiff, sore, slightly damp and I don't wanna play any more...

Pain and suffering at VU.

DREAMING OF "CAPTAIN FREEDOM'S WORKOUT"
At what point does the line between idiocy and masochism blur? I ask because, thanks to my loving (and sadistic?) wife, I find that I have been volunteered for that special kind of pain that can only be experienced by someone, who's done next to no exercise since sometime around September 1987, who suddenly gets dropped into a metric ass-tonne of physical exertion for the benefit of a couple of remedial therapy students who need to graduate by torturing a live victim for a change.

In order to lessen the impact of flashbacks and traumatic stress disorders that I may suffer as a result of revisiting the past I'll post my pained recollections of each session separately.

Week One - Wednesday 12 March
By now you think that I would have learned better but nooo, learning that when Jennie has that overly reasonable tone of voice means that somehow, somewhere, somewhen, I'm being set up for a hose-job is beyond me - Even after all these years of repeated victimisation. This particular hose-job started with Jennie asking if I'd be interested in helping out at Victoria University by volunteering to be part of an exercise program run by a couple of students. "Sure," I thought, "How bad could it be?" I found the answer to that question all too soon enough. Last Wednesday was the start of my odyssey of torment; the tip of a pain filled iceberg and I was nailed to the bow of the ship that was going to hit it head on. Do you know what a "maximal exercise session" is? It's where they work you until you drop, scrape up what hits the floor with a sweaty sounding thud and move you on to the next piece of equipment. Yes, it's as bad as you think and then some.

It started out innocently enough, pleasantries were exchanged and so on with the two students (and it's a defensive mental block that stops me from remembering their names, sorry) and their supervisor Steve. This was your basic softening up session, and my first inkling that I was in trouble. Looking at the younger of the two Maidens of Pain gave me pause to think that she was probably beginning primary school at about the same time that I was giving up on the whole notion of regular exercise. I should have left things at that. Bugger that! I should have run screaming (okay, I should have shambled wheezing) from the building then and there. Like an idiot, I stayed. Stayed while they shaved bits of my chest, and while those lost hairs didn't have names they were individually numbered (Now my chest is pasty white and rather patchy and threadbare, not a combination that I would recommend to anyone).

I'm then attached to a computer (yes, it went 'Ping!') that monitored my heart rate and other vitals through the aid of about half a million strands of sticky-ended wire, and it's while they're hooking me up to this that I notice the extra large adhesive contact pads and the automatic defibrillator that's conveniently nearby. It seems that the sweet mercy of death would be denied to me. Bugger, I'm going to survive this...

The first assessment that they put me through obviously tried to directly measure my pain tolerance threshold as they hooked me up to (and tangled my wires with - no escape!) an exercise bike with the sort of uncomfortable seat that wouldn't be out of place in a blacksmith's forge. Thinking about it since makes me realise that the blacksmith's forge would have been an attractive alternative. Having large lumps of near molten metal dropped onto my butt and then beaten into new and exciting shapes with a hammer would have been a welcome distraction from the pain of sitting in that diabolical contrivance. Just when I think that the seat on the exercise bike is going to grow teeth and bite me we have to stop the test. Not because I'm close to pegging out or anything (fond daydreams of it aside), but because I'm too big for the bloody thing and that because of this they won't be able to perform a full test to determine what my baseline measure was. Time to restart the test, only this time we'd use a treadmill...

Welcome to Hell.

Postscript
Note from Jennie (the sadistic bitch) - As I sit here and read the entry my darling husband has so painstakingly put together - pain from exercise, not from writing, he is standing behind me, breathing so loudly in my ear - at resting rate - that I have come to the conclusion he sadly needs this 10 week exercise program. Besides, I don't know why he's bitching so much, I start my 10 week program with two of the 'Maidens of Pain's' classmates.

Postscript to the Postscript
Jennie, you've done this sort of thing how many times in the past? You knew what you were in for when you volunteered for it, again. Any discomfort (and associated cravings for death) that you may experience as a result of your serial madness are self-inflicted...

My 2nd Religious Experience in 24 hours.

WOOT! BACK ON THE AIR!
It seems that my lunchtime dose of abject pessimism might have been a tad ... misplaced. I feel normal again, my domestic net connection is back in action and the withdrawal pangs are abating. I'll be in a more normal frame of mind just as soon as the voices tell me exactly what "normal" is...

Back soon, downloads are calling.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, the first religious experience for me in the past 24 hours is what I got when Jennie dipped a pork-chop in beer batter and deep fried it. Yum! Guaranteed diet killer from 1,000 meters, try one today.

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Now playing: Vangelis - Heaven & Hell : Part I
via FoxyTunes

You have GOT to be kidding me!

FINAL SCORE: DOUG 0 -- FAECAL FINGER OF FATE 1
If a person who hates modern technology is called a "Luddite", what do you call a person who is hated by modern technology? I ask because it seems that modern technology has it in for me. Big time. Either that or Telstra has decided that, for whatever reason, I must know pain, I must know fear and then I must know death. I can therefore only assume that this is the "knowledge of fear" portion of the programme, and that my eventual death by Telstra service van is only a matter of time (and will probably arrive late anyway).

Exactly how hard is it to connect a domestic phone service, and then connect an ADSL service to that new and shiny phone service? Okay, how hard should it be? I've been without a domestic net connection since 8:37pm on 18 December 2007 (not that I'm counting or anything), and it's beginning to get to me. Seriously, I've been outdoors so often and for so long now that I'm in real danger of developing something approaching an all-over tan. For 13.5 years prior to my current network blackout my skin was regularly ("Constantly?" you might ask. "Nearly..." would be my response) kissed by the loving glow of a CRT.

I thought that I had everything settled and sorted, and that a regular supply of digital download delights would be mine from the middle of last week. Sadly, this was not to be and now it seems that there is a problem with the ADSL service reaching our phone sockets from the local exchange. I am told that a service fault call has been lodged with Telstra, and that I should expect a follow-up phone call Real Soon Now(tm). I won't hold my breath waiting for this to happen however, all that ever happens when I do is that I pass out, fall down and hit my head on something hard on the way down. While I will grant that the blinding headache that follows this exercise does take the edge off some of the pain of dealing with Telstra, the blood-stains on the carpet really aren't worth it.

Sigh... All donations of wireless broadband time gratefully accepted. Email me at ... Okay, e-mail is something of a wash-out right now, time for a logical alternative. Address all snail-mail to ... Bugger... Are smoke signals out of the question?

An answer at last!

PATIENCE HAS ITS REWARDS
Surprise surprise! Seems that the reason why we're not having our mail delivered to our house is because, according to the vast intellects that dwell within the vast and mouldy vaults within Australia Post, our address is located in a rural area. How silly of me, thinking that the noise and hyperactivity in the morning was my overgrown children! Obviously, given Australia Post's reasoning, it's really a stampede of cattle and other misplaced livestock that rampage through my living room each morning. (Come to think of it a stampede of cattle would probably do far less damage to our living room than Nathan in full filght, but I digress...) At any rate I'm sure that Jennie will be thrilled beyond all measure by these happy tidings, she's a country girl again!

I wonder, if I call next week to inquire as to why we're not getting mail, what excuse they'll serve me next. If I keep at it maybe they'll get a bigger wheel to spin. At any rate, because I'm still peeved and downright bloody-minded about this, I'd take it as a real kindness if you give the sleeping souls at Hoppers Crossing a call and inquire as to why I can't get my mail. (03) 8342 6902, (or +613 8342 6902 outside Australia) is the number to call, but make sure you do it before 1:00pm on weekdays because after that the fairy godmother's spell wears off and their heads turn to pumpkins or something.