The Fan of Pro Form 800

In the private gym where I work out, an exercycle and weight bench on the way to a torture device of my choice: the elliptical machine . It is tethered to a wall by an electrical cord. This cuts out the need for a steady diet of 4 D-cell batteries every few weeks. I wonder if I can get hooked up to a power source like that? It seems being mobile enough to get my own fuel supply has proven detrimental, hence the need to be on the elliptical in the first place.
This model, the Pro Form 800, is equipped with the usual readouts: time, distance, calories burned, fat calories burned, the resistance level, and RPMs.
Most mornings I hop on the pedals in the lowest gear, close my eyes and warm up. It usually takes the machine about thirty strokes to catch my rhythm and begin calculating and digitizing it for my vain reading pleasure. After two minutes, I am pleased to see increasing numbers. The time is ticking off backwards. Usually.

My weight floats somewhere between 150 and 200 pounds, with the 200 pound mark not as far away as I’d like. Hardly svelte, I take comfort in the fact that I can comfortably fit in a size 12. I do not particularly like the belly that I can no longer suck under my ribs at will, or the other body parts that jiggle and jeer at me like gelled gravy instead of carved granite .
I’m uncomfortable working out in public gyms and too intimidated by sneering looks from well-developed men. I don’t feel at ease in women’s gyms where women are as thin as wingless butterflies (and just about as light) and have the metabolism of rabbits. On my list of annoying phrases: ”I just forgot to eat.” I’m more likely to say, “I forgot, I just ate.”

An added feature of this particular elliptical is a little fan. It doesn’t put out a lot of air, nothing remotely arctic. It is cooling in the way that blowing on Bactine is cooling. But feels better than torpid air. There’s a catch to making it run, though. One must maintain a certain pace for the fan to stay on. In the 1-6 programs, it comes on after you’ve been active for over five minutes. Like a reward. Usually, I could care less about the fan. But there are days when the breath of it skimming my face is psychologically encouraging.
Today, techno tunes that draw me into their rhythm, urging me faster and faster to keep their driving beat. This morning, I’m not feeling the first or second ‘faster’ as I hop into the pedals, one beat behind for most of the tune. Blame it on my hour late start. I overslept because of a soap opera dream, from which I couldn’t break free.
Now, I break into a sweat at five minutes, relying heavily on the techno to usher me to a leaner physique. A nearby clock gives me my starting time, although I prefer the digital read out with my latest high number of burning calories. I glide along with my eyes closed through about half of the tune which is every bit of six minutes long. I look down to see the digital read out flashing, “.45, .45, .45…” What? Not even registering one measly minute?
Stopping mid-stride, I take a swig of cool water. I resume my trance-like pursuit of muscular definition. The machine will reset itself after this brief pause, I tell myself, matching the beat of the music. the fan spins to life. imagining myself lighter, leaner, more agile, and stronger, the fan stops. My thumb finds the button and presses. Nothing.
Pausing again to drink water the read out now taunting me, “ 1:45, 1:45 1:45.” According to the wall clock, I began this little venture seven minutes ago.

The techno CD has moved on to another tune with a more attainable tempo. I reset the read out moving into program one and begin again. The fan whirs and I grin a little thinking, “finally! Let’s get to the 30-minute goal.” My hair band is soaked but I’m happy and on the road to a great work out. I check my heart rate. 225. I close my eyes to feel my body getting stronger. I imagine running through Sharon Woods in the cool early morning. As I mentally wind through the trail, I sneak a look at the fan through one eye slit. The fan stops.
It would be bad enough it were just the fan. But when it stops, all counters stop too. My perfectionist personality kicks in. Unplug the machine. Replug. All digital counters are at zero. The machine thinks about this for a moment. The remaining water in bottle one cools me a little as it trickles over my tongue. I grab bottle number two. With the machine stabilized on no program, I am free to increase resistance and vary my pace a little.
I step into the foot pedals again, slowly. I can forgo the fan. What’s important to me really, are the readouts. Already warmed up, I quickly increase my speed, keeping my eyes closed. By my thumb the fan button is right. I increase my speed again to a pace that is unmanageable. Thinking along the lines of the proverb, “A watched pot never boils,” I try to keep my eyes covered by eyelids. The fan is a sensitive entity apparently able to feel itself being looked upon. And when it does, it stops.
My knees feel like rubber bands and my shoes won’t stay contained inside the foot shaped pedal. Eventually, after putting it off as long as I can stand if, I look down. The read out is flashing all zeros. Not breaking my stride, I set it to program one. This work out today is critical.
Friends and family in my age bracket are looking older than their years. They are out of shape and out of breath. They complain of creaking and sore muscles. Make up and hair color can only do so much. The glow of health is internal. It can’t be manufactured in people with over the counter remedies.

The fan spins uncertainly, then quits almost immediately, taunting me. Agitated, but determined to complete my mission, I resign myself to the fact that the final ten minutes will be with out the fan or read outs. Pretty soon, I feel the cool breath of the fan. After several minutes, it is still going. So I dare to sneak a peek at the fan. It is dead still. The air motion is from me hyperventilating. My face is burning and my clothes are blotchy from perspiration.

...In my mind, Jesus is calling to me from the bike path at Sharon Woods, “Come on you can do it! Just keep on. Just do it. You can do it.” Holy encouragement! I begin to wonder about the average weight of an Israelite, then Israelite women. How can anyone gain weight eating all that great Mediterranean food? Is there some other meaning behind his massage? Should I trade in my Saturn for sandals?

The next techno tune keeps me hurrying along. The wall clock has, unfailingly, hit the 30-minute mark. With unsteady legs, I step off the unruly machine. My skin feels as though I‘ve been sitting in ninety nine degree Florida sun for an hour. My athletic shirt is drenched. Panting, I rest for two minutes on the weight bench, planning the upper body phase of my work out. The next 30 minutes will be spent lifting over 200 pounds of metal by various paired body appendages. Lying on my back, sweat pooling through my clothes, I hear a sound. I look over to the elliptical machine.
The fan is running.