Recently, based the history of heart disease in my family, my doctor referred me to the hospital to have a “stress test.” The “test” essentially consists of walking for awhile on a treadmill at increasing rates of speed while nine different monitors attached to various places on your chest are read by computer. Mine was an “echo” stress test, which meant that they also took ultrasound pictures of my heart while resting and once my heart rate had reached a certain target.
Now I have never belonged to a health club or had other occasion to use a treadmill, other than maybe for 30 seconds at a store. But lets face it, its not brain surgery. It is, when you get right down to it, walking and/or jogging. That is why I was unprepared for the looks of grave concern and trepidation on the faces of all three nurses as they learned, one by one, of my paucity of treadmill experience. “YOU’VE NEVER BEEN ON A TREADMILL???” they exclaimed, clearly alarmed. One even pressed me, insisting that I must have at least been on one to mess around, even if I hadn’t been serious about getting some cardiovascular activity. I felt like I had just told them I had never taken a ride in one of them newfangled auto-mobiles or seen a talking picture show. I stuck to my story through their interrogation concerning my treadmill experience, or lack thereof, which was easy considering it was the truth rather than, say, some Roger Clemens-style pack ‘o lies. Finally, satisfied that I was genuinely inexperienced and was therefore facing near certain death, each nurse then felt the need to explain in detail how a treadmill works, where to stand, where to put my hands, etc. I assured them that I grasped the basic concept and that it would be fine but I could tell they were not so sure. While all this was going on, they shaved various patches of my chest hair off to attach the monitors, leaving me with a “40-year Old Virgin” style patchy chest hair look. Normally, that wouldn’t be problem, it being February in Chicago and all, but unfortunately for me we are off to Florida for a little down time shortly.
Anyway, the test finally got underway, as I stepped aboard the great machine and it began to move. As it moved, I walked. It was then that things got even more bizarre as the nurses, apparently convinced of my doom mere moments ago, now began to marvel at my treadmill skills with comments that included, and I am not making this up “Are you SURE you have never done this before” and “You are so good, you must do a lot of walking.” The former is a compliment that hasn’t graced my ears since a particularly memorable night back in 1984, although that involved more horizontal-type activity. But the latter, what do you even say to that? “Why yes, as a matter of fact I do. Walked in here from the parking lot, if you must know. I may even walk a bit more later, perhaps around the block, or to the library and back. I thought about turning professional once, but it’s hard to make a living on the circuit, even with my natural abilities.” With each increasing level of speed on the treadmill, they became more open and enthusiastic in their admiration. Finally, my stint on the treadmill having come to a triumphant end, the machine having eventually wrestled my heart-rate up to what the staff considered an acceptable rate, the technician having studied the ultrasound pictures intently for a few moments and having decided I was not on the verge of death, I was dismissed – given my walking papers, so to speak.
Now I have never belonged to a health club or had other occasion to use a treadmill, other than maybe for 30 seconds at a store. But lets face it, its not brain surgery. It is, when you get right down to it, walking and/or jogging. That is why I was unprepared for the looks of grave concern and trepidation on the faces of all three nurses as they learned, one by one, of my paucity of treadmill experience. “YOU’VE NEVER BEEN ON A TREADMILL???” they exclaimed, clearly alarmed. One even pressed me, insisting that I must have at least been on one to mess around, even if I hadn’t been serious about getting some cardiovascular activity. I felt like I had just told them I had never taken a ride in one of them newfangled auto-mobiles or seen a talking picture show. I stuck to my story through their interrogation concerning my treadmill experience, or lack thereof, which was easy considering it was the truth rather than, say, some Roger Clemens-style pack ‘o lies. Finally, satisfied that I was genuinely inexperienced and was therefore facing near certain death, each nurse then felt the need to explain in detail how a treadmill works, where to stand, where to put my hands, etc. I assured them that I grasped the basic concept and that it would be fine but I could tell they were not so sure. While all this was going on, they shaved various patches of my chest hair off to attach the monitors, leaving me with a “40-year Old Virgin” style patchy chest hair look. Normally, that wouldn’t be problem, it being February in Chicago and all, but unfortunately for me we are off to Florida for a little down time shortly.
Anyway, the test finally got underway, as I stepped aboard the great machine and it began to move. As it moved, I walked. It was then that things got even more bizarre as the nurses, apparently convinced of my doom mere moments ago, now began to marvel at my treadmill skills with comments that included, and I am not making this up “Are you SURE you have never done this before” and “You are so good, you must do a lot of walking.” The former is a compliment that hasn’t graced my ears since a particularly memorable night back in 1984, although that involved more horizontal-type activity. But the latter, what do you even say to that? “Why yes, as a matter of fact I do. Walked in here from the parking lot, if you must know. I may even walk a bit more later, perhaps around the block, or to the library and back. I thought about turning professional once, but it’s hard to make a living on the circuit, even with my natural abilities.” With each increasing level of speed on the treadmill, they became more open and enthusiastic in their admiration. Finally, my stint on the treadmill having come to a triumphant end, the machine having eventually wrestled my heart-rate up to what the staff considered an acceptable rate, the technician having studied the ultrasound pictures intently for a few moments and having decided I was not on the verge of death, I was dismissed – given my walking papers, so to speak.
As I strode through the halls of the hospital, the fresh knowledge of my natural walking ability lending a newfound confidence to my gait, I could feel the eyes of the staff and patients upon me and hear the whispers – “Who is that? So tall, so obviously talented, one foot placed successfully in front of the other time after time, never tripping or tiring, just moving inexorably forward towards his destination?? Yes, it is he. The Walking Man.”
