Treadmill time machine

I recently moved to a new apartment complex. For the most part, it’s pretty modern. We have high-speed Internet, covered parking, and even a free cappuccino machine in the main office.

But the first time I walked into the fitness center, it was immediately apparent that the majority of the landlord’s budgetary surplus was going toward complimentary espresso drinks. The purchase of updated exercise equipment clearly has been on the backburner ever since Americans stopped winning the Boston Marathon.

The first day I went in there, I stopped dead in my tracks and just sort of stared at the treadmill for a while. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to use it. I mean, it looked like it belonged in a Museum of Early Running, somewhere between a Kalahari bushmen hunting spear and Bill Bowerman’s waffle iron.

In case you don’t believe me, or you think I’m exaggerating, here is some photographic evidence:

As the daughter of an avid antiquer, I know that people don’t buy antiques to use them. People buy antiques to display them.

For some reason that I have yet to figure out because I was born after the Kennedy administration, filling your shelves with old, obsolete crap like hat pins and oil lamps creates an air of sophistication in your home that new stuff simply cannot provide.

So at first, I thought maybe this treadmill was meant to be a really big, really impractical decoration. But the more I thought about it, the less likely this hypothesis seemed. If it were a decoration, it would be presented as such—with a giant glass case or a perimeter of velvet rope or, at the very least, an informational plaque.

Also, a 30-year-old treadmill does not exude sophistication. It exudes cheapness. Not that I live at the Waldorf Astoria or anything, but you’d think my landlord could at least get some cardio equipment from this century.

Once I had determined that this relic from the running days of yore—the Landice 8700—was meant for actual use, my train of thought moved on to a new conundrum: was this thing older than me?

The more I puzzled over this question, the more it escalated from innocent curiosity to urgent quandary consuming my every thought. There was no possible way I could go on with my life until I knew for certain whether I predated the Landice. (This is a side effect of my obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Another side effect of my obsessive-compulsive tendencies is my constant need to fold things that are not folded, so please excuse me for a moment while I take care of the blanket that has been left on my couch in an untidy mess of microfleece…OK, much better. Now back to the story.)

I considered the possibility that the number 8700 indicated that the machine was manufactured in the year 1987, in which case it would, indeed, be older than I am. But a logical guess wasn’t good enough—I needed corroborating evidence.

As I searched the rest of the treadmill for more date-related clues, I was struck by yet another conundrum: what if we were both “born” in the same year—1988?

Luckily, I realized that this question had an easy answer. My birthday is January 2. Therefore, to be older than I am, the treadmill’s birthday would have to be January 1. And since January 1 is a global holiday, the chances of anything being manufactured on that particular date are very slim.

Furthermore, if the treadmill had been produced on January 1, 1988, it likely would have been assembled by a bunch of hungover factory workers, in which case its structural integrity almost certainly would have been compromised, and the probability of it surviving 20-plus years in workable condition would have been very, very low.

Anyway, after inspecting every square inch of the Landice, I found no further evidence of a manufacture year. So, like any good detective, I considered my context clues.

The treadmill is surrounded by fitness posters that obviously were inspired by the music video for Olivia Newton-John’s “Physical.” I could ridicule them at length, but really, the photos say it all:

The copyright date on the posters: 1986. Aha! I thought. Now we’re getting somewhere. I felt like I was smack dab in the middle of a classic mystery novel. (Nancy Drew #61: The Secret of the Old, Decrepit Treadmill)

Like Nancy, I am very observant—which is why I noticed that there is something not quite right about those ’80s fitness posters. In fact, they are downright creepy. Here, take a closer look at these shots and see if you notice it too:

I hope I’m not the only one who is bothered by the fact that THIS PERSON HAS NO FACE UNLESS SHE IS PICTURED FROM A SIDE PROFILE PERSPECTIVE, AND EVEN THEN SHE DOES NOT APPEAR TO HAVE OCULAR CAVITIES!

Now this was beyond bizarre, and it was more than I could take. I had to get out of there. Maybe if I ran fast enough, my dreams wouldn’t be haunted by faceless aerobics instructors in Reebok high-tops.

Alas, I never cracked the case. Although it is difficult for me to accept the treadmill's symbolic victory over my wit and skills as an investigator, I have grown to appreciate the air of mystery surrounding the true age of the Landice 8700. It’s like Joan Rivers, but with less plastic. 

One night stand

Most hotels nowadays have some sort of fitness facility. They range in size from “a rickety treadmill and two partially inflated exercise balls” to “a handful of various cardio machines and a set of mismatched free weights” to “a miniature health club with several machines, a spa and a trainer named Rick.”

For the past couple of months, I have been staying at a hotel with an above-average exercise room. There are no deep-tissue massages available post-workout, but as far as I can tell, all of the equipment was manufactured sometime in the last decade. There are three treadmills, two elliptical machines, a recumbent bike, a set of weights and medicine balls, and a rack of clean sweat towels (bonus!).

I’m staying in the middle of a very urban area, which means there aren’t many outdoor running options. (Unless your idea of a workout involves dodging the unsavory characters lurking in city bus stops.) As such, I have become somewhat of an early morning fixture in the hotel gym.

It’s not a bad place to get in a workout, especially if, like most hotel guests, you’re only in town for a couple of nights. The problem for extended-stayers like myself is that everyone else walks through the door knowing that they are probably not going to see you—or anyone else in there—ever again.

It’s kind of like going out in a city where nobody knows you—for one night, you can act like a total ass without having to worry about showing up in your boss’s Facebook feed the next morning. In a hotel gym, you can act like a total ass without having to worry about running into the stranger on the other treadmill at next week’s kickboxing orientation.

Once gym etiquette goes out the window, it’s total anarchy. In this dog-eat-dog, every-man-for-himself kind of atmosphere, you better snag the equipment you want the moment you see it open.

The way to do this, apparently, is to wipe your sweaty head with a fresh towel and then drape said towel over the piece(s) of equipment you wish to use later. That way, you can hop on the treadmill for another 30 minutes knowing that the 25-pound dumbbells will be waiting for you whenever you’re ready.

While you’re at it, it’s probably a good idea to reserve one of the two benches in the room using another rag soaked in your own perspiration—you know, just in case someone else is thinking about using it sometime in the next half-hour.

Oh, and heaven forbid that you screw up your circuit due to lack of floor space for your burpees. You should definitely go ahead and dibs some real estate using a stretching mat topped with—you guessed it—another damp sweat towel.

When you see another guest circling around “your” bench with a confused look on her face, it’s best to just stare straight ahead and pretend not to notice. She’ll go away eventually. And if she doesn’t, you can always play dumb. (“Oh, oops! I didn’t mean to leave that towel there. Silly me!”)

If she calls you a jerk and storms off, who cares? You’re checking out in 45 minutes, and you don’t plan on returning anytime soon.

Before you leave, though, you should stop by the front desk and lick every apple in the dish of complimentary fruit—just in case your plans change and you end up coming back later.

As merry as the snow is deep

When the weather is nice, it doesn’t take much coaxing to get yourself out the door for a run. Any argument to the contrary has very little substance. Like, would you ever say to yourself, “Sunny and 65 again. Great. Just Great. How am I supposed to train in such perfect conditions? God and Tim Tebow are obviously conspiring against me.”

No. You wouldn’t. You would sound like a whiny tool.

But when you’ve just survived the blizzard of the century—a storm that warranted the closure of public schools in Montana—a little whining is absolutely acceptable. In fact, if you didn’t complain about the snow, you wouldn’t have much to add to the water cooler conversation at work.

As a runner, however, you have way more cause for complaint than the run-of-the-mill “I had to dig my car out of the driveway,” or “I got stuck in the middle of the roundabout on the way to the office.”

Although it is easy to fall victim to a “poor me” kind of attitude when the weather is less than ideal, this is exactly the sort of situation when us runners most need our skills in positive self-talk.

So, in the spirit of reckless optimism, here are a few examples of ways to correct yourself when negative thoughts about winter running threaten to poison your psyche.

What you’re thinking: Why doesn’t anyone shovel their freaking sidewalk? I’m going to end up spraining my ankle on one of these frozen foot-divots, and then I’m going to sue the person that lives here for thousands of dollars.

What you should be thinking: All of this slick, uneven terrain is doing wonders for my foot and ankle strength. Whoever lives here must be a big proponent of stability exercises.

What you’re thinking: My feet are numb and soaking wet. This sucks worse than anything that has ever sucked before.

What you should be thinking: All of the extra water weight in my shoes is giving me an added strength-building benefit. Once I’m running on dry land, I will feel lightning-quick and totally unstoppable.

What you’re thinking: Running in freezing rain shouldn’t be allowed. I feel like the wind is purposely stabbing each icy droplet directly into my cornea.

What you should be thinking: Free exfoliation! Think of how much I’d have to pay at the spa for this sort of facial treatment!

What you’re thinking: It’s time to buy an effing gym membership.

What you should be thinking: I’m glad I’m not hiding out on the treadmill like some loser pansy. I’m a huge badass for running in this crap.

Resolutions for realists

Each year, as we approach yet another dropping of the ball, I always wonder how many people actually stuck to the New Year’s resolutions they made the previous January. My guess is that the success rate is less than 10 percent. Possibly even less than 5 percent, due to the fact that a lot of people lie.

From my own personal observations, this is what I know: In January, everyone is a runner. By December, the trails and treadmills are all but deserted.

Seriously, watch for yourself. If you’re a regular gym-goer, you’ll be astonished by the sudden onslaught of new faces (and the invariably out-of-shape bodies that go with them) after January 1.

The problem is, despite the best intentions of all those naive newbies, their discipline will inevitably fade as their daily workouts become weekly, then monthly, then nonexistent. I hate to be a Negative Nancy, but it’s true. As the cliché cynic in me would say, “I’m not a pessimist, I’m a realist.”

And precisely because I am a realist, I always establish a back-up goal for any aspiration I set out to achieve, especially when it comes to New Year’s resolutions. It’s a little self-esteem mechanism I came up with during my college racing days. Obviously, no runner has their best race every single time they compete. So, in addition to setting legitimate goals for each contest—time, place, championship qualification, etc.—I would throw in a couple of “fluff” goals that would be considerably less difficult to attain. These included things like don’t waste energy by passing too much at the beginning or try to put on a sweet game face as you’re gritting your way down the homestretch so you’ll look super-fierce in your media guide action photo.

It takes a long time to break an old routine. If your New Year’s resolution is to get in shape but your body isn’t used to working out, it will be difficult for you to adjust to regular exercise. This is where so many people go wrong. Instead of setting a realistic goal like I will start exercising every week, they go all-in from the get-go with resolutions like I will get up at 5 a.m. and bust out two rounds of P90X before allowing myself so much as a cup of coffee.

Although you might be able to sustain such a grueling schedule for a few days—maybe even a few weeks—you will not last. Such a dramatic change takes time, and you need to give yourself another option for the days when getting up at 5 a.m. just isn’t going to happen.

Here are a few examples of common New Year’s resolutions and some corresponding back-up goals.

Likely unattainable goal: I will run every day.
More realistic back-up goal: I will exercise every day. (Taking the stairs instead of the elevator and lifting dishes to the top shelf of the cupboard count as exercise.)

Likely unattainable goal: I will start cooking my meals from scratch using only fresh ingredients.
More realistic back-up goal: I will not eat more than two frozen pizzas a week.

Likely unattainable goal: I will not rot my brain with reality shows.
More realistic back-up goal: I will not rot my brain with stupid reality shows (which do not include Keeping Up with the Kardashians, Dancing With the Stars or Chopped).

Likely unattainable goal: I will not make fun of other runners.
More realistic back-up goal: I will not make fun of other runners out loud.

The torpid two

By this time of year, I have usually settled into my winter hibernation den—a.k.a. the gym—for some quality time on the treadmill and the elliptical machine.

But since my gym membership has expired and I plan to put off purchasing a new one for as long as possible, I have been spending more time exercising in sub-freezing temperatures than usual.

Here’s the thing: don’t tell Gov. Brian Schweitzer or his bolo tie, but I’m not really a true Montanan. I mean, I live here, and I love it, but when the mercury drops, I turn into a real pansy.

My treadmill dependence, it seems, has finally caught up with me. Now that I’ve found myself without access to one, I have been forced to confront my cold-weather wussiness.

I have been running outside in conditions I would never have dreamed of stepping out in as my former self. As a result, my body is not adapted to move normally in such an environment. My usual quick, efficient stride has devolved into a stiff, lethargic lope.

My “winter pace,” however, has allowed me the opportunity to take in my surroundings with more detail than ever before.

During the snowy months of the Montana winter (October through June), wildlife sightings are usually few and far between. So, on a particularly chilly day last week, I was surprised to see a squirrel scampering across the road.

Actually, scampering isn’t really the word. It was more like the squirrel version of a slow-motion jog. Like, if there had been a bunch of squirrels, you could have filmed a squirrel version of the beach scene in Chariots of Fire. (Do I hear YouTube sensation?)

My speed-challenged, bushy-tailed friend struck a chord with me. I wondered why he, too, looked like he was caught in an invisible vat of molasses.

So of course, when I finally returned home, I went straight to the Google to satisfy my curiosity.

Turns out, squirrels—along with many other mammals—drift in and out of a state of reduced metabolic activity when the temperature drops. According to Wikipedia—which means there’s about a 50 percent chance of accuracy—it’s called “torpor.”

When an animal enters a torpid state, its heart rate can drop as low as four to eight beats per minute—per MINUTE. That’s like one heartbeat every 15 seconds!

Every now and then, when temperatures allow, the animal can come out of torpor and resume normal activity. But it’s not like they just 1-2-3-snap! out of it. So my little nut-hunting rodent pal had probably just woken up from the deepest sleep ever. Who could blame him for being a little groggy?

And that, my friends, sounds like a pretty good idea right about now. I think I’ll take a cue from nature, go brush my teeth and settle in for some nice, quality torpor.

Vegas vexation

You know how that famous scene from Chariots of Fire makes beach running seem like the epitome of fitness fun, when in reality it just gives you Achilles tendonitis and makes you smell like sweaty fish?

My weekend in Las Vegas was kind of like that.

Like many things in life, my Sin City experience didn’t exactly live up to all of the Hollywood hype.

I didn’t win a car. I didn’t get a suntan. I didn’t meet anyone famous (not even Criss Angel, Mindfreak). Wayne Newton didn’t invite me to ride horses at his sprawling desert retreat. I didn’t even get roofied or wake up with a jungle cat in the bathroom.

What I did do was:

(a) wander aimlessly down the strip, breathing in an ever-present vapor of cheap cologne and cigarette smoke.

(b) pay $12 for one freaking Mimosa, which I sipped while lounging on an upholstered poolside Chaise lounge that reeked of cheap cologne and cigarette smoke.

(c) run on a treadmill—despite the fact that it was 75 degrees outside—in a hotel fitness room that smelled like cheap cologne and cigarette smoke.

Why, you might wonder, would I resort to working out in such a respiratorily hostile environment, surrounded by greasy, hungover dudes in cutoff t-shirts?

Because if I had braved the streets of Vegas, I would not have gotten anywhere without running into:

(a) a horde of intoxicated tourists.

(b) a neighborhood where all of the buildings have metal bars over the doors and windows.

(c) Carrot Top.

To drive home my point, I have created the following chart. Do with it what you will.

Inspiration part II: my nasal brainchild

So there I was, pounding out a seemingly endless treadmill workout with the world’s most fetid breather outputting a constant stream of hot, nasty stink approximately three feet to my left.

I tried in vain to distract myself from the foul odor I was forced to absorb with each inhalation. First, I cranked up the volume of my iPod and scrolled through my playlist in search of a tune that could carry me away from my miserable reality, if only for a few fleeting moments.

Somehow, listening to Kelly Clarkson belt out the lyrics, “Since you been gooonnnnnnnneee, I can breathe for the first time, I’m so moving ooonnnnnnnnn, yeaheeeeeeeyeahhhh,” just wasn’t as motivating as usual. (Come on, admit it—you love working out to Kelly Clarkson too.)

Using more force and energy than necessary, I dramatically ripped my headphone cord out of my iPod and shoved it into the plug-in for the built-in TV. My overly animated display of frustration did not affect my malodorous neighbor in the slightest. He was much too focused on an old episode of Gunsmoke that he had probably seen 26 times since it originally aired in 1964.

I furiously flipped through the channels in search of a program so fascinating that I would completely forget where I was and what I was smelling. You know, something like Cheaters or Sarah Palin’s Alaska.

I started with my old standby, the E! Channel: commercial. So I switched to my second favorite, TLC: commercial.

Growing increasingly angry and annoyed, I quickly moved through my list of choice cable networks: Food, Style, ESPN, Animal Planet—even The Weather Channel. And guess what I saw? Commercial, commercial, NASCAR, commercial, commercial.

Well, since rednecks wrecking cars—ahem, sorry, I mean “motor sports”—doesn’t really do it for me, I was forced to watch several minutes of television advertising.

I was in a very cynical mood, so every product I saw on the screen looked like the dumbest thing ever invented. I found myself thinking things like, “Tires? Who the crap buys tires? L-A-M-E!”

Then came an ad for a new DirecTV feature that allows viewers to pause their television programming in one room and resume watching it in a totally different room on a totally different TV. This service seemed to me, at first, totally ridiculous.

But as I rotated my head from Mr. Halitosis on my left, to the rows of empty treadmills on my right, to the partially completed distance on the display screen in front of me, I was suddenly struck with a brilliant idea for a more practical application of DirecTV technology.

What if I could pause my workout on my treadmill and resume running on a machine located several (dozen) feet away from Limburger-Cheese-Breath? I could call it DirecTM and market it to gyms and cardio equipment manufacturers all around the world! I could become a multi-jabillionaire and never have to work out next to anyone ever again because I’d have enough money to build my own private gym and stock it with as many treadmills as I wanted! And it would probably make me taller and tanner with less unwanted hair!

OK, sometimes my fantasies get out of hand when I’m suffering from the effects of excess oxygen consumption. But come on, look me dead in the eye and tell me you’ve never been in a situation where this might come in handy.

That’s what I thought. Contact me when you’re ready to invest.

Exhalation inspiration

There’s nothing worse than a cold, rainy Memorial Day weekend.

Scratch that—there’s nothing worse than running on a treadmill on a cold, rainy Memorial Day weekend.

Wait, it gets worse—there’s nothing worse than being stuck next to an old guy with bad breath while running on a treadmill on a cold, rainy Memorial Day weekend.

You know what I’m talking about. We’ve all been there at one time or another. But just in case you’ve somehow avoided this treadmill rite of passage, take a moment to imagine yourself in the following scenario:

You’ve just passed the halfway mark on a grueling five-mile pace-progression run.

Your breathing is growing increasingly labored as you struggle to convince yourself that hey, it isn’t so bad. At least you pretty much have the joint to yourself, since everyone else is out trying to light their barbecues in the rain.

But then…dun, dun, duuunnnnnn…in walks the old dude with the most severe case of halitosis known to man. He has his pick of machines. He could literally have his own row if he so desired. But guess which one he chooses? Oh yeah, that’s right: the one directly to your left.

To make matters worse, he is positioned approximately halfway between you and the wall fan you have cranked up to maximum speed, so whatever disgusting odor comes out of his face is blown directly into yours.

You are flooded with feelings of utter frustration and helplessness as you think, “Dear Lord, why me?”

You wince as he repetitively presses the “speed up” button, finally settling on a rate of 4 mph—a blistering pace for a 65-year-old in jeans with an elastic waistband.

It’s only a matter of time before he’s sucking air—and then blowing it back out, infused with an odor that can only be described as a mixture of coffee, taco seasoning and moth balls.

And so, on that fateful Memorial Day weekend, as I desperately tried to invent a new breathing pattern that did not involve the use of my nose (an attempt which, by the way, failed miserably), the old wheels started a-turnin’ and the old light bulb started a-blinkin’. I had an idea.

More on my stroke of brilliance in my next post. Sorry, I know the suspense is killing you, but you’ll just have to wait.

Say Yes to the Stress

After a long day at the office—because, you know, I have one of those now—there is no better way to relieve stress than heading to the gym for a little hardcore fitness action.

But I have to say, evening gym-goers are hella-intimidating compared to the mid-morning retiree crowd that I typically ran into back in my days of extended unemployment.

Everyone has just gotten off work, and by the time they make it to the gym, they’re tired, angry, starving and stressed. Their patience is wearing thin, which is why they generally employ a “wham, bam, thank you ma’am” style of working out.

So when you rack the bench press after your final set, they will not tolerate the seconds-long break you take before finally standing up and stripping your weights.

Also, no matter what machine they happen to be on, you can bet they are using it as a substitute stress ball. In my highly professional and scientifically-sound opinion, at least 95% of all user-inflicted damage to gym equipment occurs between the hours of 5 and 9 p.m.

The other day, for instance, I saw some guy throw—not just drop, but actually launch in a forward projectile motion—a 60-pound free weight dumbbell. As it smacked the ground and sent a palpable shockwave through the rubberized flooring, the guilty exerciser—a thirty-something behemoth with a shaved head and a dark, perfectly-manicured goatee—yelled, “Aaaaaaahhhhhhggggggggrrrrruuuuuuhhhhhhhmmmmmm!!!!”

I was the only other person in the room, which made for an instantly awkward situation. I couldn’t just pretend like nothing happened. This guy was obviously under extreme emotional duress.

I thought about casually walking up to him and saying something like, “Rough day at the office, huh?”

Ultimately, I decided that when it comes to stress-ridden ogres with goatees, any form of social interaction could be a real gamble. Instead, I hit him with an emotionally neutral look that said, “If you want to chuck weights around the room, go right ahead. I totally understand where you’re coming from, and I will make no attempt to stop you because you are uncommonly large and brutish.”

The abuse of gym equipment is not limited to weight stations—cardio machines are equally at risk.

On this same occasion, there was a middle-aged woman power-walking on the treadmill directly in front of the elliptical machine I was using. I peered over her shoulder and saw that she was watching an episode of Say Yes to the Dress.

I don’t know if it was a particularly intense episode or if she had other things on her mind, but either way, she was walking the hell out of that poor treadmill. She had the front handle bar in a white-knuckled death grip as she violently swiveled her hips from side to side and stomped her feet against the belt with each hostile step.

At first, I was totally annoyed. I had my iPod turned up as loud as it could go without causing serious hearing impairment, and I could still hear her cross-trainers slapping the platform. Eventually, though, I was able to sync my breathing pattern with the rhythm of her unnecessarily heavy foot strikes.

Our symbiotic exercise relationship lasted over thirty minutes. At the end, we were both more fit and less stressed. As an added bonus, I’m pretty sure Jennifer from New Jersey ended up finding her dream wedding gown.

On your mark, get sweat, go

If you’re one of the five people who have been reading this blog regularly for the past few months—or one of the countless exercisers who have had the misfortune of using the treadmill next to mine—you know that I have a severe sweating problem.

I’ve been unavoidably flecking my excess perspiration on fellow gym-goers for years—ever since I came to the conclusion, following extensive cost-benefit analysis, that running on a treadmill is a better winter exercise option than the outdoor alternative. Running on the icy roads of rural Montana simply isn’t worth the risk of broken bones and/or frostbite.

I was unaware, however, that there was an actual term for this phenomenon. That is, until I came across an interesting link on one of my new favorite blog sites, runningisfunny.com.

After reading this article, I realized that my current protocol for dealing with my overactive sweat glands is all wrong. My mantra of “absorb, absorb, absorb” should be replaced by “deflect, deflect, deflect.” I should forgo sweat towels, portable fans and SweatWow products; instead, I should use my natural talent for sweat production to my advantage. In short, I should adopt the highly effective gym tactic known as “defensive sweating.”

Over the years, I have inadvertently tested the effectiveness of this maneuver on several occasions. My conclusion? It works.

I have found it to be particularly effective when combined with an Accessory Sweat-Flecking Mechanism, or ASFM. Examples include loose jewelry, ponytails, headphone cords or mullets.

Using the force of kinetic energy transferred from the motion of the runner, such mechanisms propel sweat droplets much farther than they would travel on their own.

For example, in an incident that took place at my local athletic club approximately six weeks ago, I unknowingly utilized the tactic of defensive sweating to force another exerciser off of the treadmill adjacent to mine. I knew he had probably vacated the area to avoid being sprinkled with my perspiration, which was flying off my iPod cord faster than nonsensical words fly out of Charlie Sheen’s mouth. At the time, I was left feeling more embarrassed than triumphant.

After reading the article, though, I’ve begun to see defensive sweating as an outlet for competitive urges I can no longer satisfy with weekly competition. It really is the perfect contest for me—no one beats me at sweating. No one.

Plus, leaving the gym feeling like a sweaty winner rather than a sweaty freak has done wonders for my self-esteem.

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.