Things That Make the Body Ache

It’s been a few weeks since I wrote anything, much less posted it on the web. Ever since I mercifully sedated Northography, I’ve focused on work and household, as I said I would. For those of you not familiar with the Northography project, please tune your browsers to www.Northography.com. Come back here to learn more if you’re interested.

The long Memorial Day weekend has been an active one for me. My wife, Peg, and I are preparing for my step-daughter’s high-school graduation next Saturday. This means removing piles of rubbish that have festered on our property for several years, freeing household relics of dust, archiving them in esthetically pleasing arrays, and taking several deep breaths after each item on the list has been circled as “done.” Now is the time to take out the trash. With no snowstorms or brain-freezing lows to thwart us, we strive to sculpt our very humble Lower-North-Mankato lot into an Upper-Midwestern economy Versailles. After eight years of work, it’s finally starting to look like a place where I could live. That’s good, because I live here, and I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.

As I write, I am aware of nagging pain in my hands, feet, back, buttocks, legs, arms and neck. Fortunately, the rest of me is ok. There is no dizziness, nausea or spasmodic twitching. What discomfort I feel is my own doing. I choose to weed-eat the yard with military precision, move dense piles of twigs, and spread bales of straw in the garden. The weather has been ideal for mild sunburn. I’ve been drinking lots of water and other stuff. This is far better than hanging out at some crowded campground, grilling hot dogs and getting to know people I already know even better. This is home, and I know where the bathroom is. I have refrigerators and freezers full of cool things. The windows open and close, there is a breeze, and the cats are staring through the screens at meaty birds. This could almost be somewhere else, like the Italian Riviera or the Austrian Alps. It’s not, though. It’s really not.

My body aches for another reason - the workout I put myself through at the gym this morning. I try to do this at least three times a week, alternating days with low-impact cardio exercises like long, brisk walks, bicycling and installing Point-Of-Sale computer systems in retail stores. The entire process takes under an hour, from when I walk into the gym until I leave. First, I lift weights on six resistance machines, concentrating mostly on upper-body strength. I find that thirty repetitions of over 90 pounds hurt just enough, with the exception of the abdominal machines, which require a lot more weight for any result. The music I listen to on my iPod helps. After the weights, I jump on a treadmill and push “quick-start” at 3.6 miles per hour. After a minute, I raise the speed to 5.2, and gradually increase it until I’m running at 6 miles per hours after twenty minutes. At some point, I always have to make a decision to finish the task, despite the pain and discomfort involved. It helps to have been diagnosed with asthma as a child, and with diabetes as an adult, and to have a father and uncle who have had strokes. And, as I said, the music on my iPod helps as well.

Today, while running on the treadmill, I listen to a long recording of throat-singing chants by Tibetan monks. I can’t say whether the music is beneficial to my exercise, although the element of breath is strong and seems to somehow support the cause. I enjoy it much more when I end the run, drink some water, wash off my face and walk outside into the stiff breeze. I sit in my 1999 Chevy Cavalier and roll down the windows. The car faces a brick wall, the backside of the Mankato Salvation Army building. Two ornamental fir trees frame the area in between what used to be large windows, bricked solidly for whatever reason. Still listening to the monks, I begin to notice patterns in the wall. The top row of bricks is laid in a short-long-long-short pattern. Below it, all bricks in the row are long. This is also true for the next three rows, until the fifth, which is, once again, the short-long pattern. The entire wall, with the exception of the bricked-in windows, is constructed in this fashion. For some reason, this seems remarkable, and I wonder why I had never noticed it before.

While I’m consumed in chants and mortar, a man walks around the corner of the building, partially obscured by the fir trees. He carries a plastic bag, which he sets down on the grass against the wall. It appears to contain a few bottles. Apparently unaware that I’m watching him, he unzips his pants and begins to pee. He is facing me, but his face is hidden. It’s not a very discreet location for relieving oneself, and I think the guy might be drunk. A car pulls up next to me, and the driver, clothed in stylish workout attire, steps out towards the gym entrance. He doesn’t notice the pisser, but turns around quickly and pushes the button on his keychain to lock his car. It honks to acknowledge security.

The man behind the tree finishes the job and zips up his pants. He manages, slowly, to pick up the plastic bag, and walks out towards the parking lot. As he passes my car window, he stops and says something. I pull the buds out of my ears to say - “What?” He asks me -

“Wuz you honking at me?” I understand his southern accent, as drunk as he is, a long way from home. His hair might be red, cut very short, and he is clean-shaven. What, I think, had brought him to this? “No - the guy next to me just locked his car.” He looks at me seriously, says, “aw-ite,” and staggers off. As I drive away, he stands on a curb, confronting his destiny, a point in space, chanting a mantra known only to him.