Three Minutes

Three minutes is not a great length of time. It takes longer--sometimes much longer--to do many things, like take a shower, wait for a bus or train, or eat dinner.

There are other times when three minutes can seem like an afternoon--like when you get on your exercycle after not having used it as anything but a convenient place to hand my shirts and stack my pants for at least the last couple of years and ride it for exactly that long.

I don't know why I chose Memorial Day to resume the slow climb to being in shape, or why I decided to clear the wire hangers off the handlebars (you thought I was kidding about throwing my clothing there, didn't you?) after having walked to and from the Davis to see Forgetting Sarah Marshall (which wasn't bad, but wasn't great either) and hopped aboard.

Maybe it was because eating better has reduced my weight, but at too slow a rate for my satisfaction. Or maybe it was because I got tired of having an enormous piece of unused hardware in my apartment. (And for those of you who read that as a euphamism for something dirty...you've been on Dune way too long. Then again, I wrote it, and I thought it sounded like something something dirty, so...yeah, Dune.) Or maybe I'd just like to see my feet a little more often.

Whatever the reason, last night I cleared off the Schwinn Aerodyne, plugged in the Panasonic cassette player I'd bought that afternoon from from Laurie's Planet of Sound (it's bright yellow, weighs about 10 pounds and practically screams 1975 from its back-mounted speaker), popped in "Mix Tape #6" (don't ask me why I needed that exact tape, especially since I recorded it about 10 years ago and can't remember what's on it) and began by stretching while Liz Phair sand "Fuck and Run."

After about 30 seconds of reaching towrd the hardwood floor while it and my hamstrings mocked me mercilessly, I threw my left leg over the seat of the Aerodyne and hit the ON button. The display came up, the run time was adjusted down to three minutes (from the previously loft goal of four), and the start button was pressed.

The large fan that takes the place of the front wheel began to spin and throw out jets of air throughout La Casa del Terror, sending loose papers and nervous cats flying in all directions. The wheel/fan made a continual "ping" as I pedaled, as if something were sticking up through the grate and hitting it, but nothing was visible and the pedals worked as they should.

So...pedal..yeah...ow.

It took only three minutes, though it seemed much longer--every time I looked down at the timer, expecting a minute to have gone by, only to find ten seconds had elapsed--to discover how out of shape I truly am. After that brief effort, my legs were leaden and I needed a long drink of ice-cold water. And this morning, I felt soreness in parts of my body whose existence I'd almost entirely forgotten. (Those of you thinking dirty thoughts again...seriously, Dune.)

Does this mean I won't get back on again tonight for another three minutes? Hell no. I plan on doing three minutes a night, every night, no matter how late I get in or how tired I am, until three minutes feels easy enough for me to move it up to four. Then five. Then six. Then on and on until I feel like I can ride forever. (Again...oh, never mind.)