It all went back to my mother.
Alarmed at the amount of eggs being purchased and eaten during our last visit to the States, of which I accounted, as continues to be the case here, for about 24 weekly, she wondered what the cholesterol / coronoary health implications might be. So I promised to get a check-up when back here, which I did yesterday.
No cholesterol problems, cardiologist finds bloodwork impeccable (I spared him the specific egg numbers). Since I had not had an EKG in years, he does a stationary one. Everything great. But since I lift weights, he wants to do a ‘walking test on the treadmill’ (quote) to complete the picture, I have never had anything like it.
Okay; he has an appointment free today – just come in your work clothes, he says, lasts just ten minutes. I note the address in my calendar and forget about it until I show up today at the clinic.
I start the test: shirt off, of coure, but in my dress trousers. I am thinking, well, I hate treadmills, and my legs are kind of sore from maxing out on DL yesterday and squats the day before, but for my mother’s peace of mind I can make like a rat in a cage for ten minutes
(being careful to keep arms still for occasional blood pressure and other measurements and not to jolt the wires), and anyway it will warm me up for working out later at lunchtime. It did not occur to me to ask exactly how the test would unfold.
I walk a bit, then he ups the speed and the incline. Okay, so I walk a bit faster. More speed, greater incline. Walk faster. More speed, greater incline. Walk faster. I have not bothered to ask if there is any method in these increases.
Just walk, walk, walk. In between he is telling the assistant about the higher incidence of cardiovascular problems among Anglo-Saxons vs. the French.
Then more speed, greater incline. We can stop at any time, he says, if you want to. But I, Anglo-Saxon, will show him: Walk faster, resembling the Olympic racewalkers, just much less graceful, and not able to move my arms. And in my dress trousers.
Then he tells me I can run if I want to. My first reaction is to be annoyed: I do not like treadmills. I really do not like running anymore. I really really do not like running in my dress trousers. I really really really do not like running in my dress trousers on a treadmill.
Then the penny drops, I figure it out: This is a stress test. And I think: I am in my dress trousers, dammit.
By now I am running, well, awkwardly jogging without moving my arms. Again, he says we can stop at any time. I say to him, we can stop when you are satisfied. He says to me, he has sufficient data already, but we can keep going if I want to. I think to myself: I do not like carrying on conversations with other people when I am working out. Unbeknownst to me, the ten minutes are behind us.
We move through the next 2 minute interval and I reach 193 beats per minute, blood pressure 210/80, at 9 km/hr on a 20% incline (noted just for objective info - I don’t think this is any big deal.)
This is admittedly the point where I am breathing heavily, sweating, serious lactic acid has built up, but I am not at the point of utter failure – yet still I have to decide whether to keep going, and go for the point which would come sooner or later where I might vomit, just to show him; or instead say enough.
I am in my dress trousers. I say enough. The test results read ‘excellent’. My mother is reassured. But I still feel like I did not give my all for Anglo-Saxony.