Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Pituitary Exuberance

Osborne's new Ruling 12", as joyous a slice of House as I've heard in a long, long time, ruled my treadmill yesterday. (See head-band wearing evidence soon.) It's pure cotton-candy house. Downtown, the second track, feels like a throwback to Midwest Raves '91-92. Dancing weekends at the Lift or Metropolis in the Flats of downtown Cleveland, or at after-hour parties above auto-body repair shops in Columbus. Something about the tracks thick, emotive chords and chunky rhythm are lovingly cut from Rave's template.

Have I mentioned this before? At roughly the 16 to 18 minute mark of what I feel safe calling a modestly rigorous 40-minute daily workout on the treadmill, there's a definite endorphin kick. I don't know much about even the most basic physiology, but I know it feels really good. Something of a biochemical nature has no doubt taken place, a pituitary exuberance. This is also when whatever happens to be playing on my iPod shuffle will strike me as being the most perfect thing I've ever heard.

Lately I've been making use of iTunes' Playlists feature to create on-the-fly "Work-out" mixes. I'll literally jump into some sweats, put my shoes on and throw together a mix. I pay particular attention to what track will fall at that golden 16 to 18 minute mark. This is also where any prior reservations I had to working out, any desires to cut the work-out a little short, give way to something bordering ecstatic. I must keep going. Maybe even a little faster.

I read recently that a man of 40 should be able to do 27 push-ups. That's consecutively and in "proper form." And given that I'm going to be 37 in May, I suddenly find myself determined to be able to do just this by my birthday. 27 push-ups. I can huff out about 10 now. I figure, with a little diligence, I'll be up it to 15 in a couple weeks, 20 in 2 to 3 weeks. 27 by my birthday. The whole thing reminds me of Jack LaLanne and Jack Palance.

I practice my push-ups at random. Sometimes Abby enthusiastically climbs up on my back , as though my push-ups were invitations to an amusement-park ride. And, of course, I'm always happy to oblige. With her on board, a 31 or 32 lbs. sack of potatoes, I can barely eek out more than a couple push-ups before collapsing.

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