Exercise Equipment Can Save Your Life

An old stair master machine saved my life today.
As I lay sprawled across the hood of Mom's car - legs tangled in my bicycle frame, right hand clutching the stair master's handle, head inches away from the concrete - I realized I hadn't put the stair master up for sale yet and idly wondered if anyone would buy it if advertised as a life-saving device.
Probably not.
Because I work exactly one and a half blocks away from where I live, I ride my bicycle. The fact that only two out of our three cars are working at any given time has nothing to do with my healthy, earth-saving decision. Well, almost nothing. On the way to work, I pedal up a 5% incline, across a fairly flat road, and then through a field. Meaning, of course, that on the way home, I pedal through a field, across the flat road, and then coast down the small, small hill to our driveway.
I've gotten into the habit of pedaling as fast as I can down that hill and coasting up our driveway until I come to rest just in front of the shed door. In fact, I am so comfortable with this routine that I even lift my right foot off the pedal and rest it on the crossbar. I don't need to expend any energy at all to arrive home. The only requirement is a judicious application of the hand brakes.
On several occasions, I have awed and inspired the neighborhood children with my bicycle prowess. It is (more than) slightly gratifying to watch their mouths drop open and hear exclamations of "Wow!", "Cool!", and, once, "Be careful!".
Lately, I have developed a certain amount of confidence on my bicycle. I do not have the arrogance to say that I would win a bicycle race, but I can ride and talk on the cell phone at the same time. I can ride and text at the same time. This pride has developed so much so that I sometimes wonder if I could ride my bicycle, talk on the cell phone, type a paper on the laptop, and whip up some brownies simultaneously.
Fortunately, I literally knocked this pride out of me before it evolved into a fatal hubris.
After extensive analysis (that took approximately 3 minutes), I determined that the cause of my crash was a direct result from braking too early. I wobbled, over-corrected, and landed upside-down on the hood of Mom's car. As I slid toward the cement floor, I saw the stair master out of the corner of my eye, grabbed it, and thus was saved from having my brain soaking up the oil stains. Incoherent gurgling and screams forced themselves from my throat. Positioned in such a way that prevented me from gracefully exiting the pose, I waited in vain for help to arrive. Eventually, I kicked myself free from the bicycle and slid to the ground.
I put the bicycle into the shed, shut the door, and turned to see Lil' Sis standing at the back door with Poochie.
"Hi, Hannah," she said. "You okay?"
I don't know if I glared or not, but I felt like it. "Yeah."
"Didja crash?" she asked as she opened the screen for me.
I nodded. "Yes."
"Huh. Dinner's ready," she replied and walked into the kitchen.
I repositioned the stair master in its original position, just in case I should need it again.
Maybe, to thank the stair master for going above and beyond the call of duty, I should wash it down and place it in the living room. On a coffee table. It would make an interesting conversation piece.

I dusted off the ol' lawnmower yesterday and took her for a spin around the yard. Of course, when I say dusted off, I mean I made a few half-hearted attempts to dislodge the two-inch layer of grass that is crusted around the engine. Usually, we have the mower covered with an old, vinyl tablecloth, but sometime in the last three weeks it had blown off, thus providing an excellent shelter for all sorts of creepy crawlies. An actual spider web clung to the left side below the handle, complete with resident spider. Little Sis will be happy to hear that I did not jump back and scream until someone arrived to take care of the spider. Instead, I calmly (okay, maybe not so calmly) ignored the eight-legged creature in the process of reviving the mower.

Our lawn mower was born about fifteen years ago, a shiny, red bundle of purring motor and whirling blades. It was not fortunate to be blessed with a grass-clipping bag, nor self propulsion, but all in all, it came into the world a content machine. I was not present during its formative years, but it seemed to learn all the basics and, indeed, nearly excel at the intricate art of grass-cutting. Every Saturday morning, LM, as it was affectionately called, had a mini-tune-up, a quick rub-down, and a leisurely stroll around the front and back yard. I'm sure that someone, somewhere, has photos of little LM cheerfully chugging along and trimming the lawn to a perfect 2 inches. Life in Lawn Mower Land couldn't be happier.

In LM's sixth year of life, we assumed ownership, blissfully unaware that this machine had lived a full and happy life and was looking forward to serving out the rest of eternity in a quiet junk yard. For the first few years, LM gamely put forth the effort, zipping around the yard in front of one of my brothers as they pushed with unparalleled speed. Brothers, I have found, are more than willing to keep the lawn mower in tip-top shape, as it allows them to get out of housework with the (dubiously) legitimate excuse of yard work. In fact, brothers are quite able to ignore potential problems as long as it does not interrupt any lawn mowing activities. And so, when my brothers moved out and on with their lives, they left little LM behind, sad, tired, and with an embarrassing leak.

I dumped another quart of SAE-30 oil into the chronically dripping mower, trying not to notice that the grass upon which LM had been sitting is completely dead. Just another section I don't have to worry about mowing! Let's be optimistic! I wheeled LM out to the front yard, pushed the prime button twelve times, and yanked the cord. At least it starts right away. Never mind that a large blue cloud drifted out and covers the immediate area. It starts and works, and that is all that counts.

It had been about two and a half weeks since I mowed last. Due to an unfortunate water leak and hasty excavation a few years ago, our lawn is not only uneven, but home to three different kinds of grass. Near the driveway, the grass is short and sort of a yellowy-green. The side closest to the neighbor's yard is dark green, long, and fine. The grass in the middle looks mostly like crab grass (but it isn't - I know because WalMart doesn't sell crabgrass . . . I think) and grows like a weed. Wait, not a weed. Grows like really fast-growing grass. The result makes our front lawn look like it has a Mohawk. And, because the blades haven't been sharpened since, well, forever, LM kept choking on the long grass and shutting down. I persevered, adopting a rhythm of tilting the lawn mower on its two back wheels and thunking it down on the organic shaggy carpet. In this way, I managed to circle the entire lawn, successfully trimming the grass. I surveyed my work, gave the sputtering mower a friendly pat, and wheeled it to the backyard, repeating the process. Eventually, I replaced LM back in its dead-grass parking spot and tucked the vinyl tablecloth around it.

One day, little mower, I will replace our entire yard with genetically engineered grass that will grow no more than 2 1/2 inches high, and then you will finally have your rest. Until then, please, please don't die.
I don't want to go back to the scissors.

Last Friday, for the first time ever, I ran out of gas. This never happens to me. Of course, I allow the gas gauge to hover somewhere between 1/4 tank and empty before I fill it, but I have never, ever allowed it to get so far gone that the vehicle just sputters and dies. And so, if you were driving eastward in the middle lane on 4100 South just west of Bangerter Highway on Friday around 12:30 p.m., I apologize for the hold up.

I was headed across town in a borrowed vehicle to pick up a check, my dog in the seat next to me with her head hanging out of the window. The music on the radio station compelled me to tap my fingers on the steering wheel. The beautiful, sunny (a.k.a. blistering hot) day was for a quick car ride with poochie. I applied the brake as the five cars ahead of me stopped at the red light. My eyes flickered to the gas gauge, noting the little orange gas pump icon that warned of imminent propulsion failure. The gas station I frequent most often lay almost exactly two blocks from my current location. Surely Mr. Isuzu could hold out for another 4,000 feet. The car wheezed and rumbled, then died. No problem, just start this puppy again and we're good to go, right? Ha. Not. After a couple futile attempts to convince Mr. Isuzu that fumes were really, in all actuality, just extremely low-fat gas, I flicked on the hazard lights and whipped out my cell phone.

Person A didn't answer. Person B was caught in the middle of town, and wouldn't be able to get to me for another thirty minutes. Person C's phone consistently dropped the call after the first three words. Mom would be at work and unalbe to come to my aid. Little Sis was an hour away, slogging through mud and gunk. That left my non-existent, super-handsome, charming, and romantic boyfriend. He would, no doubt, put the problem of world peace, world hunger, and green-house warming on hold, and appear momentarily with the gas-can in hand - and the promise to invent that solar-powered car ASAP. I made a mental note to finally track down that guy and beg him to date me.

Meanwhile, I held up ten light changes, wincing and waving apologetically as cars - you know, the ones with full tanks of gas - honk and drive around. One kind and thoughtful lady asked if i wanted to borrow her cell phone. Whoever you are, that was the one thing that prevented me from repeatedly slamming my head into the steering wheel. Thank you.

Inspiration struck. I could push Mr. Isuzu into the next lane and into that empty lot. Tesoro gas lay onoe block behind me. An easy walk. Poochie and I could use a walk. I slipped the car into neutral and told poochie my plan. She didn't seem to care one way or the other, but whatever. It was a GOOD plan. I could get out of this myself. I opened the door, squealed, and slammed it shut again as a large SUV zoomed by. The next time, I looked behind me then opened the door.

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to push an Isuzu Rodeo all by yourself? And where were all those large, helpful men I always see jogging behind stalled F-350's, joking with each other and occasionally tapping the truck with their forefinger to get it moving again? Wasn't there a stalled-car patrol? If not, I intend to invent one. It would be a van full of burly, good-natured people - men and women, let's be fair - that would drive around looking for people in distress. They could change tires, jump batteries, fill gas tanks, and, above all, help people push their car across one lane of traffic into an empty lot.

After being laughed, jeered, and yelled at for a few minutes, I gave up and climbed into the relative safety of the car. Now I began to panic. If I couldn't get gas, I couldn't get across town to pick up the check. If I couldn't get the check, I would be fired. If I was fired, poochie and I would starve. Then we would die.

I had just resigned myself to that fate, when rescue arrived in the form of a little white hatchback car. A tall, brawny man got out and asked if I needed help. His two little girls asked if I wanted a potato chip. I accepted the help, but declined the snack. He attached a tow-cable to the front of Mr. Isuzu and pulled (yes, his little car actually pulled all 15 tons of Mr. Isuzu) me across the Bangeter and into a parking lot. I thanked him profusely for saving my life and the life of my dog. I think I went a little bit overboard, because he stammered "You're welcome," and took off. Thank you, kind sir! I shall never forget what you have done for me!

It ended happily. Person C, having been informed by Person B of the problem, arrived within minutes, so I didn't even have to walk to the gas station. My faith in human kindness has been restored.