The perfect predicament

My college coach always taught her athletes to focus on the positive qualities of each racing experience. In her eyes, a bad race was, if nothing else, a valuable learning opportunity. Over the years, this approach to race evaluation has yielded many important lessons: Fudging your entry time is not always a good idea. Pop-Tarts are not an appropriate pre-race meal. Official lap-counters cannot always be trusted.

A couple of weeks ago, I raced a 5K in Arizona and learned that there is, in fact, such thing as a “perfect” race—one that does not require any sort of post-race effort to identify the “positives,” because the entire affair is, from start to finish, one big, sweaty bundle of positivity.

Last weekend, exactly seven days after my perfect 5K, I decided to push my luck by entering another race. Considering that the second race occurred in Montana and was double the distance of the first one, I’m not really sure what I was thinking; I can only surmise that the thin mountain air compromised my brain function, severely impairing my ability to think logically. I mean, honestly, what are the chances of hitting the jackpot two weekends in a row?

“Slim to none,” you might say.

Somewhere between the freezing temperatures, icy wind, high altitude and aggressively long hills, “slim” got thrown out the frost-covered window. Before I even finished my warm-up, I knew there was exactly “none” chance of repeating the flawless race experience I had achieved just one week prior.

And…I was right. I know, I know, this story would be so much cooler if I told you that through the power of positive thinking and sheer determination, I was able to overcome the odds and pull out another perfect race in spite of decidedly imperfect conditions—or, at the very least, that I found five dollars. But alas, unlike Mary Cain—who can expect a perfect race pretty much every time she toes a starting line—I am human. (And in this economy, people are much more careful with their five-dollar bills.)

The problem, I have realized, is that once you find perfection, it is very difficult to replicate. Now that I know what perfect is, no other race will ever measure up. This is at once immensely satisfying and immensely depressing—like getting a surprise upgrade to business class only to have every subsequent flight for the rest of your life ruined by the memory of fully reclining seats, excess legroom and complimentary cocktails.

Similarly, even though I ended up winning the 10K outright by nearly six minutes, I did not feel entirely fulfilled. There was that lingering feeling that it could have been better—if it had been warmer, if the wind had been calmer, if the course had been flatter, if I’d had more competition, blah, blah, blah…

Not to mention that my prize as the overall female winner was a pair of size 9.5-11 athletic socks. But hey, let’s focus on the positive: I’m sure they’ll come in handy somewhere down the road—if I unexpectedly turn into an exceptionally large man, for example.

And now, because I just couldn’t resist, here is a crude artistic rendering of myself as an exceptionally large man:

The real Brooke Hogan

Solutions to common gym predicaments

We all wish we could have our own private gym à la Hulk Hogan, but for most of us, working out means sharing—and oftentimes, tolerating—the company of a variety of exercisers, many of whom are uneducated in the basic rules of gym etiquette. As such, your workout routine will inevitably be disrupted by the behavior of a fellow exerciser at one point or another. I have created the following guide to help you deal with such issues in a creative and timely fashion. Note: solutions have not yet been tested in real life situations. I hereby disclaim legal responsibility for actual outcomes.

The problem: The old guy with the Walkman is listening to a mix tape of his favorite 1960s folk songs as he goes through an extensive routine of resistance band stretches. How do you know this? Because he’s singing along. Out loud. You’ve maxed out the volume on your iPod, but you can still hear his tone-deaf karaoke rendition of “If I Had a Hammer” over the Justin Bieber play list blaring from your headphones. It’s really starting to affect your concentration, and you are seconds away from scrapping your entire workout to save your own sanity.

The solution: Scroll through your song library and find your favorite rap jam, preferably by an artist known for their indiscriminate use of profanity. Using a two-pound dumbbell as a microphone, jump onto the nearest bench and launch into your own impromptu karaoke performance. As you scream out lyrics containing multiple references to pimps and hoes, you will undoubtedly attract the attention of at least one gym employee, who will promptly escort you to the nearest exit. Before they can get you out the door, quickly remove your headphones, point to the still-oblivious geriatric crooner, and say, in a pleading voice, “Well what about that guy?” They’ll have no choice but to shut both of you up (if they don’t kick both of you out).

The problem: The guy on the treadmill in front of you is a seriously heavy breather, and based on the combination of smells wafting from that direction, you guess that his last meal consisted of a raw onion and two slices of garlic toast.

The solution: Take a mini fan (the one you had been using to cool yourself) and place it directly behind the odorous offender’s treadmill. That way, whatever stench he’s blasting into the air will be blown right back into his own nostrils. You might get hotter and sweatier after sacrificing your only source of wind resistance, but at least you won’t be suffering from stink-induced nausea.

The problem: Some clueless newbie is treating the lat pull-down station as his own personal gym locker, leaving his water bottle, sweat towel and clip board on the seat while he’s across the room doing calf raises. You politely ask him to move his crap because you need to use that machine. You thank him as he scoops up his things and mumbles an apology. You finish your lat reps and proceed to the bench press, where you find…his stuff.

The solution: Wait until he’s busy doing medicine ball tosses on the other side of the weight room, leaving his belongings unattended and vulnerable. When you’re sure he’s not looking, snatch up his stuff and stash it under a pile of stretching mats. Try not to act too smug as you watch him walk circles around the gym in search of his belongings. When you’re satisfied, purposely bump into him on your way to the water fountain. When he asks you if you’ve seen his stuff, hesitate for a moment as you “think,” and then tell him you might have seen something over by the plyo boxes…or was it the chin-up bars?

The problem: You’re in a time crunch, and you’ve got a four-mile tempo run to knock out. If you don’t make it home by 4 p.m. for Oprah, you’ll miss the TV debut of Celine Dion’s miracle twins. You beat cheeks to the cardio room, only to find that, in an effort to promote senior health and fitness, the local chapter of the Red Hat Society is having their monthly meeting on the treadmills. Every single machine is occupied by a female senior citizen; you’ve never seen so many velour sweat suits in one place. As Dorothy calls the meeting to order and Ethel seconds the motion, you realize that unless you act fast, there’s no way you’re catching the first glimpse of the world’s most famous French-Canadian babies.

The solution: Head to the front desk and wait around until the attendant is busy mixing up a protein shake. When you’re certain that they are completely distracted by the task of measuring out appropriate amounts of whey protein powder and Greek yogurt, slip behind the desk and grab the intercom receiver. Switch it on and announce that free prune-juice smoothies are being distributed at the snack bar—first come, first served. When the attendant is again distracted—this time by a rambunctious crowd of thirsty Red Hat ladies—make a smooth getaway and go claim your favorite treadmill.