I headed to the gym this morning for my last speed workout before my race on Saturday. This morning’s gym population seemed particularly odd. Every gym has its odd characters, but for some reason my gym in New Hampshire has a decidedly greater percentage of oddities than our gym in Phoenix. For the most part our gym in Phoenix was filled with, what some might call, “beautiful people,” who took their workouts seriously–there were even a few professional athletes who worked-out there.
Now, I run at a gym with that touts itself as a place where anyone can workout without feeling judged; and believe me any and everyone does workout there. This morning I stepped onto the treadmill and began my warm up jog. As I did I noticed an elderly woman on the treadmill directly in front of me, she must have been in her late 70’s. She was walking at a decent pace. Good for her, I thought, then noticed, dangling next to her from the handrail, a portable oxygen tank. I chuckled at the contrast to the orange-skinned, hardbodies from our gym in Phoenix. Then started to worry a little for her safety. I became even more worried when a gentleman the same age, in a plaid, flannel shirt and khakis, stepped onto the treadmill beside her. He looked uneasy as he stepped onto the belt and stumbled slightly as he increased the speed. I started calculating what would happen if he fell. The guy to his left looked capable of helping him, but I was unsure about the lady with the oxygen tank. How would she handle an emergency?
As I increased my speed, I kept my eye on these two, worried that if anything happened I would need to act quickly. I started my second mile and passed the time by counting the plaid squares on the back of the gentleman’s shirt. I was working up a sweat and periodically reached for my towel to wipe my face. For the last 100m I increased the speed to a sprint. My arms and legs were pumping, my heart was racing, I was breathing heavily, when suddenly I felt a warmth and wetness in the seat of my running shorts. When I sweat, I sweat everywhere, but this seemed different. It wasn’t a gradual wetness, it was a sudden spurt of wetness. This was not sweat. I was horrified. I’d heard of women having “leaking” issues after giving birth. But it has been almost three months since Sophia was born and I’ve never had any problems.
I stepped off the treadmill and waddled to the bathroom. There, my fear was confirmed. I had indeed peed my pants. I thought of the two elderly folks on the treadmill in front of me. How silly of me to think that they are “odd” and I am “normal.” I freakin’ peed my pants at the gym! I am NOTnormal. Looks like I’m the one who should be wearing the Depends.