Amberly McAteer tests out her roommate's running gadgets: here, the omniscient Garmin watch and the dignity-stealing fuel belt.
Approaching the one-hour mark on the elliptical - perhaps the most tedious machine ever invented - I'm not physically exhausted, but my brain has left the gym.
My arms fly in and out, with the range of motion of a Barbie doll, and my feet literally go in circles. I am profoundly bored.
"I don't feel like dancing, no sir no dancing today," I suddenly belt out, singing aloud to my iPod, surprising myself - and the man beside me. He stops, mid-swing, and moves to another machine.
I'm nursing a foot injury and cross-training, which you'd think would be spicing up my regimen. But I'm craving a hard run. Six weeks ago, that notion would have been preposterous, but I miss the fresh air and the sweaty reward of leaving it all on the road. Plus, the big race is 13 days away. (Insert panic attack here.)
After learning I'm on the disabled list, many readers wrote in, recommending I take to the water. I tried to heed their advice, but I soon found out that aqua-running is a) so much harder than it sounds, and b) just me, moving in slo-mo, making an awkward face in a pool. Sorry, friends - it's just not my thing.
On the few times I've gone for a run, I'm not pushing it (doctor's orders) and the instant I feel sharp pain (usually at six kilometres), I get on the nearest subway and head home.
Desperate to shake the less-than-thrilling routine, I raid my roommate's running gadget bin. I start tentatively with "the fuel belt." Strapping on the Velcroed holster of tiny water bottles, I feel more like a photojournalist heading into a war zone than a runner. It's nice, I guess, to have a cold drink along the way - but the raised eyebrows from strangers just isn't worth it. I know what they're thinking. Catching a glimpse of myself in a window as I pass confirms it: I look as silly as I feel.
But what follows in the gadget parade is an entirely different story. The Garmin, an unassuming wristwatch, quickly transforms into the Big Brother of running gizmos. The almighty timepiece measures my pace, calories, altitude (who knew that mattered?) and heart rate, and wirelessly transmits it all to my laptop back home.
If I stop, the 'virtual running buddy' tells me I'm lagging behind (hey, some of us like to window shop, Garmin.) I'm in nerd heaven. But completely infatuated with all my data, I'm not thinking about my stride and the sharp pain kicks in around kilometre four.
My favourite toy turns out to be a website: JogTunes.com pairs my heart rate with music. After I get over the "why didn't I think of that?" moment, I can't get enough: Because of the lactate testing I did earlier, and my Garmin love, I'm well acquainted with my "in the zone" heart rate. At 153 beats per minute, JogTunes recommends hundreds of songs that'll keep me entertained and moving.
Maybe I do, actually, feel like dancing.
Follow my training progress here, and pick your training program here.