So there I was, plugging away on my cross-trainer thingamabob at the gym. (Actually it was this one.)
On Tuesday, I brought a book in with me. At the time I had three books out from the library, two of which were ILL’ed, and all of them are due back by the first of August, so I need to do some readin’, b’gawd. Anyhoo, I knew that that type of cross-trainer had a book-holder thingie on it. So I could bring my book.
Uh, book-holder is something of a misnomer. It might hold the latest copy of People magazine for the gals or SI for the guys, but the book I had was a moderately wide and thin volume, and it barely fit in the little nubs that hold the sucker open. Bummer.
I finished that book and have started on some narrower, thicker volumes so I knew better than to bother. I just took my iPod full o’ metal (The DiePod! I know, unoriginal, but I think it’s funny) and prepared to watch whatever was on the TV.
I’ve mentioned this before, but:
- Having my own music for cardio is a MUST
- Having a book or TV or something to focus my visual attention as well is a huge help in terms of making the time pass by faster
- Having something interesting in all of the above categories improves it even further. That is, for me, watching the World Series of Poker is a hell of a lot more engrossing than ESPN’s sports-talk show “Around the Horn.” But anything’s better than nothing.
So what happened yesterday?
The TVs were showing women’s golf. I shit you not. No offense ladies, to me watching ANY golf (live or televised) is about as interesting as watching flies fuck, but to have it be ladies’ golf is downright insulting.
And what came next? You know what came next. Twenty minutes into my workout, the DiePod, well, died. I thought I had plenty of charge, but NOOOOOOOOO. And that’s the big drawback to an iPod – my old mp3 player ran on AAA’s. If one ran dead, I kept a spare in my bag. With the iPod, all I could do was finish out the ten minutes on that cycle. And no, I wasn’t about to start another 30-minute cycle like I’d planned. Not watching the LPGA on closed-captioning without any damned music.