This evening, Tim the Trainer and I met for a session at the Golden Gate Park Polo Fields. One of the many barriers I have about exercising is doing it in public. I'm not really wild about strolling couples gawking at me as I crank out sit-ups or being passed by a 83 year old as I jog around the track. Tim, on the other hand, doesn't really give a shit and has no problem offering pleasantries to strangers, a practice I find abhorrent whilst publicly sweating.
Anyway, we were "jogging" around the track when a group of cyclists in their full, Euro-regalia came whizzing by. "On your right!"
Yeah, Livestrong. I got it.
They'd passed us 6 or 7 times.
And in addition to the highly annoying, "On your right!" they'd scream code at each other. I can't even tell you what it was and certainly not what it meant. It was cyclist slang, the code of the spandex, the language of the mini-visor.
On lap 2 or 3 (I've blocked out the pain), the leader of the pack as it were screamed, "Hey guys! It'd be better if you better if you were on the right! We can't see you coming around that turn!"
"Okay, thanks!" Tim hollered back.
Whoosh. They all whizzed past us in a blur.
"Fuck you, Lance Armstrong." I sighed, pushing sweaty hair out of my face as we moved to the right side of the track.
Tim walked ahead. "Well, it's kinda good to know. He could've been a lot ruder about that."
Um, whose side are you on?
Tim's right, of course. I think I have a natural hatred for those that break a sweat with a smile on their face, tweeting about their marathon time and dropping what an awesome workout they enjoyed at 5am, like they're talking about a latte or really great morning sex.
I am wildly jealous of those people. And since I will never be one of them, I must hate them with every fiber of my being.
Do I feel better post 75 sit-ups? Begrudgingly, yes. Am I looking forward to Tim kicking my ass again on Thursday? Fuck no. And if anyone screams "On your right!" at me then, well, I seem to recall some mad boxing skills...