I am the Fat Lady

About 7 years ago I hurt my back. In retrospect, it wasn't really that bad. I went to a chiropractor, and over the course of 6 months he adjusted me and taught me how to take care of it myself. (I was not going to be one of those people who is addicted to his chiropractor, by god!)

I soon began a morning stretching and light workout regimen that I continue to follow 7 days a week to this day. I spend 45 minutes to an hour doing this every day. It is to the point that I miss it if I don't do it. (I also floss religiously, but that's another story.)

During that same time my wife and I joined Weight Watchers. Well, she joined WW and I participated vicariously through her. In the program I dropped about 20 pounds, most of which is still off.

Of all this I am proud. This pride gets me out of bed an hour earlier than I need to be each morning. And it is with this pride - this hubris, if you will - that I must now introduce the Fat Lady.

Being a creature of habit, I drive nearly the same route to work each day, on a county road through a couple of suburbs before entering the highway and becoming one of the faceless thousands idling life away, alone in our cars heading to work, on our state and federal highway system.

Ah, the priceless solitude of the commute!

Most days I half listen to talk radio while trying to remember which meetings I haven't prepared for. Some days I opt for music on one of the many, many Clear Channel stations - homogeneous pop/rock for the mindless and intelligence challenged.

But some days - rare ones - I provide a color commentary to my drive. On these days I'm in an inadvertant good mood, giddy with the realization that I've survived another day, another night, another layoff at work, another whatever. It was on one of these rare days that I encountered the Fat Lady.

It was about 8:15am on a crisp sunny morning. I don't remember the date or even the season, but I remember seeing first the silhouette then the detail of a clearly overweight woman, perhaps in her mid-50's, walking vigorously along the sidewalk. She was wearing generic gray sweatpants and matching sweatshirt. Neither fit well. In fact, they appeared to have been purchased in another fashion era, probably before she'd gained all the weight that was now straining most of the elastic in this outfit.

My running commentary noted all of these facts.

"You go, girl!" I said clearly to myself and the Fat Lady as I passed her. I don't think she knew I was talking to her - seeing as my windows were rolled up and she was on the opposite side of the street. But her puffy red face nodded an expression to me that said, "I need to be doing this. I don't care what you think."

Quick digression: What is the best kind of exercise? The kind that you'll do.

The Fat Lady disappeared from my thoughts until the next morning's commute. At about the same time and place we encountered each other again. She was, if anything, walking even more vigorously than the day before, arms flailing at her sides in an odd, uncoordinated, not-syncopated-with-her-gait way. Her face was red and beads of sweat were visible on her temple.

So surprised, was I, that I broke from my talk radio induced coma to comment, "Good for you, Fat Lady!"

The Fat Lady and I continued our weekday encounters for months. Each day I commented, "Good for you, Fat Lady!" even though, after some time, the "Fat Lady" part didn't apply as much. In fact, I came to enjoy her success at sticking with her regimen as much as I enjoyed sticking with mine. I felt pride for her.

I have since changed my route to work and don't see the Fat Lady anymore. This, however, is not the end of my story.

Last Friday I decided that, what with gas being 3 dollars a gallon and all, and that I live so close to a bikepath that runs practically straight to my office, and that the office has a locker room with a shower, that all of these reasons make it clear that I need to ride my bike to work. All 10 or so miles of it. Good for the planet. Good for my health.

I have a decent mountain bike - it's not great, but it works for me. I ride with the kids frequently in the summer. And with my morning stretch and workout regimen, I feel that I'm in pretty darn good shape, by golly! Further, I've made the ride before, just to see if I could, and I reached the office in a bit under an hour. On a sultry 90 degree day, no less. This, by comparison, would be a cakewalk. Perhaps I'll go shopping for my fulti-colored, skintight Discovery Channel nylon biking shirt.

As I rode last Friday I was trying to think: this is good for my health; and this is good for the planet. What I really concluded was: this damn path is so flat that I never get to coast; and this backpack is heavier than I thought. And I wish all these Lance Armstrong wannabes would stop whizzing by me.

I made it to work in 50 minutes. I showered and was at my desk a good half hour earlier than usual. My legs were a bit tired, but not any worse than when I used to play basketball. All in all a positive experience.

At the end of the day I braced for the ride home. My legs hadn't quite recovered, and it appeared to be much warmer outside than in the morning (of course). So out I went.

I was doing fine until the old lady passed me. She wasn't really that old, I suppose, maybe 60, tops. But she blew by me with relative ease, and kind of gave me a look from the corner of her eye - a look that said, "You go, Fat Guy!"

Bitch! I busted my ass to catch her. But I didn't. I still had several miles to go and decided that it was more important to pace myself and make it home than to suffer the indignity of calling my wife for a ride. So I'm telling you now (and told myself then) - I could have passed her if I'd wanted. Really.

I'm riding again tomorrow (weather permitting). And I vow that old lady will not pass me again. I am not the Fat Lady.