Oh, Snap!

Not having the slightest clue as to how to start, I climbed aboard the nearest treadmill. A glowing, digital heart made me feel like the machine was on my side. I stared at the instrument panel like a toddler at an electrical socket, and randomly started pressing buttons. A list of possible courses appeared on the screen, one of which I think came with a Sherpa. I selected option one, and adjusted the incline at the machine's prompting.

Beep! The machine began to move, and my legs with it, in a gentle, strolling gait. Ah, I thought, this isn't so hard. The heart icon glowed benevolently. Beep! The treadmill revved up, and I grabbed the handlebars in front of me, breaking into an Olympic-caliber run. The screen indicated that at the current clip, I would burn seven hundred seventy calories an hour, assuming my heart didn't burst. The sprint lasted only thirty seconds, at which time, it beeped, slowed to a gait, and allowed me to wipe sweat from my forehead. Not that I'm out of shape, mind you.

A half-hour of fight and flight and the treadmill entered the 'cooling down' phase, stopped, and let me off. I lurched unsteadily back to the magazine rack, and returned an issue of Time I had pretended to read. The guy on the treadmill beside me was reading a book on D-day. The print was really tiny, and I marveled at his ability to concentrate on the complexities of the plot while managing to not fall to his death. On to the next series of challenges, I scanned the room to find thirty contraptions, each looking like it was built to elicit confessions.

I though of the waiver I had signed only hours earlier, the one that exonerated the club of any death or dismemberment. I glanced at the towel dispenser and wondered if their absorbency had been tested with spilled brains. Snap Fitness is open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, and is mostly unsupervised. Fifteen dollars got me an electronic key, that's useful at any of the multitude locations across the country. I could exercise at 3am if I wanted to. I don't want to.

There was nobody in there to impress, but in my newly purchased Adidas gym shorts, I felt compelled to try to affect at least some experience with as many machines as possible. After having metal jammed up my ass for the third time, I decided to consult the demonstrative pictures and diagrams posted on each machine. I learned quickly that the machines work best when I'm not facing the wrong way.

I worked out for an hour, and with trembling arms, spritzed the seats with disinfectant, grabbed my sweatshirt from my cubbyhole, and drove back to my apartment to eat a piece of pumpkin pie the size of a battleship.