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...
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...
2 comments:
Can I come watch the next session???????
An appreciative audience at last, I should feel flattered. I'm not, of course, as I know that deep down you only want to laugh at me (again).
So no, you can't. Nyah! :P
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