Stairmaster: The End of my Masculinity

I recently did something I said I would never do. I always see it in the gym. Just hanging out, lonely. Sitting there, idle, chillin'. At times, it has taunted me. At times, it has mocked me. At times, 60 year olds stand on it and kind of shuffle their feet.

I walk past it, in my cut-off and basketball shorts, and I scoff at it while flexing my bicep. I like to imagine our dialogue going something like this:

"I just did 1700 sit ups, and benchpressed a building. What are you doing there, Stairmaster?"

"I am just sitting here, really. If you want to get good at walking up stairs, you can stand on me later."

Thanks, but no thanks, Stairmaster. I can master stairs on my own, or actually, you know, RUN.

Something changed, though. I was on the elliptical, and I was thinking, "You know, this is fine, but I'd like something MORE. You know? Something like...climbing a pretend staircase!!"

Then I realized the person next to me was staring because I was talking to myself. Now seemed like a good time to get off of the elliptical and try to become the master of stairs.

I was not even 2 flights in, by the time a girl I know came up to make small talk while I am on this OBVIOUSLY easy cardio-machine.

I am a big fan of casual-cardio-chatter. You know, the friend that comes up to you and punches you on the arm to say "what's up" while you are cooling down or warming up? Totally fine. I am that guy sometimes.

But the kind of cardio-chatter where you look like you just took a luke-warm bath with all of your clothes on as you breathlessly labor on this demon-child of a machine? That is the cardio-chatter that I am not okay with.

"Yeah, I'm just really glad this semester is over!" She said, as I was sinking into the immovable quicksand that is level 12 of the Stairmaster.

The steps were sinking to the ground like I was walking on water, and I was grasping onto the side-bars to try and keep myself from plummeting to the floor.

She looked on in either disbelief or embarrassment for me, but continued to speak, regardless.

"Yeah, I just had a really tough course-load, but it was worth it in the end."

(Silence)

(Sound of the steps sinking because I can't keep up)

"Uhhuh....aauughooohGOD!" I muttered through niagra falls that was spilling down my upper lip. It was a unique combination of sweat, snot, and a little bit of drool.

The Stairmaster made me lose control of all of my bodily functions. That is how difficult it was. I was peeing down my leg, crapping my pants, and blowing my nose all over the handlebars while I drooled like a teething baby.

A teething baby with very poor cardio-vascular fitness, and the inability to climb fake-stairs at an efficient rate.

"Are you okay?" She finally asked, even though she was thinking it the whole time.

"S'really hard," I gasped inbetween breaths.

"Yeah. I don't know, I just can't wait for the summer," she said, completely oblivious to the fact that I was nearing the end of my life.

"M'ne'ther!" I replied.

"Okay, well I'll let you go. See you around," she said, visibly trying to hold in the laughter at my overall inadequacy.

"Bleh," I replied.

I figured this conversation took at least 10 minutes, because it felt like an eternity. I looked down at the time screen, and I saw a little caricature of the trainers from "The Biggest Loser", hopping around the block numbers that read "4:26, you WUSS, mocking me, chanting "fatty, fatty, fatty" over and over again.

It was sixth grade all over again.

I managed to conjure some focus, and keep a solid pace for another 6 minutes, when the older gentlemen I always see on the Stairmaster decided this would be a good time to try and talk about basketball with me.

"So how's the team lookin' for next year?"

I love talking about basketball, really, I do. And he is a very nice man.

I also love being able to breathe. These two things could not occur simultaneously at this moment in time. Master of the Stairs was taking over my social-gym-life.

"I actually can't talk right now," I managed, a pretty eloquent sentence.

And by can't talk, I mean I physically cannot speak right now. I cannot form words.

"Ahahaha...what, are ya busy?" He said, essentially mocking the fact that I couldn't keep up with this STUPID MACHINE.

"A'ctlly, I am. This'real hard," I said.

"Yeah, don't worry about it, ya won't be running full court sprints this year, or anything. I'm sure conference play will be much easier than walking up stairs," he said.

Then, he made the biggest mistake of his life.

He playfully slapped me on the butt, only to realize his right hand just took a full body dip into Lake Sean, where all the fish die, and nobody swims because salt and horrendous odor are not fun to swim in, DUH.

"Oh, my! You sure are working hard, ha ha ha!" He said, in that jolly old man voice that reminds you of Santa Claus, but you still kind of want to punch them. You know, that voice.

"Tr'y'n" I exhaled.