Let it go!

Trainer: "Let go!"

Me: "NO."

Trainer: "Let go!"

Me: "I can't."

Trainer: "Yes you can, let go!"

While this could have very easily been a battle about me letting go of his throat, it was actually my first day on the treadmill. Starting off at a reasonable walking pace, my trainer wanted to see my running form. Him kicking up the speed a couple of notches, me grabbing onto the side bars for dear life, it was a battle for control. See, I have a "thing" about falling flat on my face on top of a road moving fast beneath me. Every time I'd start to let go I had a little panic attack, thinking about creating a scene fit for a comedic movie. I'll do just about anything to avoid public humiliation so I begged, "Slow it down, slow it down and I'll let go." I was sort of like the kid who promises to not run away if you let him up. 

After finding a pace I could tolerate, I let go with one hand. He smiled as if to say, "Seriously, that's all you can do?" Yep. He wasn't buying it. Finally I took both hands off the bars and found a comfortable rythymn. There was one catch though... I couldn't take my eyes of the dashboard. It was if I found my balance there and even the slightest glance right or left would have sent me tumbling. 

Trainer: "What are you looking at?"

Me: "Shut up. I'm running." Well, I only said that in my mind because I actually like and respect this kid and his abilities as both athlete and instructor. When he signed up for this job, he probably thought he'd be working out strong, world-class athletes. Instead, he has clients like me..ridiculously weak and out of shape...so I keep my smart comments to myself ... in a stare down with the red numbers on the dash.

As if to taunt me, the computerized equipment reflected I was burning 197 calories per hour. PER HOUR? I'm about to kill myself either by heart attack, or trip and splat, and I'm only burning 197 calories per hour! When I stop I'm going to shake this machine a little and see if I can get it working again. Like a vending machine that keeps your money and doesn't deliver the PayDay candy bar, the treadmill takes all your sweat and delivers back a piddly .15 pounds and that's if you can go for the full hour. Based on my calculations, I burned exactly .025 of an ounce. Ridiculous. 

After a few minutes he gives me what I need most: encouragement. He makes a comment about me having pretty good running form and he's not sure where I learned that, unless it's some natural athlete recessive gene. At first I thought he said "naturally pathetic" and that's what happens after years of having your mind tell you what you can't do. It occurs to me that my biggest obstacle will be just that — what I believe I cannot do. So, the conditioning and training will involve more than my old, tired body. It will require I retrain my mind into believing I can do more. I'll try not to confuse that with eat more.