Now that I'm walking and running around the track most of the time, instead of on the treadmill — because that works out better for handing Leo off to Mark or to our oldest to watch while I run, or for walking with Leo in the sling — I'm noticing the people around me a lot more.
The treadmills at our Y all face out the window-wall at the street below, which is interesting in its own way. Most of what there is to look at are houses, cars, postmen, the occasional school bus. Many of the treadmills have individual television screens; we don't have a TV, and I have been known to time my evening workouts to coincide with The Daily Show. (Daytime workouts, not much to see except cooking shows. Rachael Ray: fun, and I have made some of the things at home from memory. Paula Deen on the other hand… um… all I can say is it's really painful to see that much sugar and butter go into things that are nominally salads.)
Walking around the track, though, circling and circling around the basketball gym halfway up, there's a chance to see some of the other people who frequent the Y.
Teen boys shooting hoops on weekend evenings; grown men shooting hoops on weeknights. On Thursday nights he child care staff string a badminton net across half the gym, and dump out a trash bag full of shuttlecocks, and set a gaggle of six- to ten-year-old kids to whacking the shuttles around; there's always one little girl crawling on the floor after the stray shuttlecocks, patiently stacking them into multicolored Christmas trees.
Not long ago I spent a good twenty minutes watching one ponytailed woman, who had the gym all to herself; there was only she and her soccer ball, which she returned over and over again, expertly positioning herself and the ball, defending an imaginary goal, the wall her opponent. She was totally focused, and sweating, and there wasn't a sound except her breath, her shoes on the floor, and the BAM of the ball against the wall.
Saturday there were three boys, young brothers, taking turns shooting baskets while their dad waited under the backboard and returned the balls. A little later they came back on their own — maybe dad was off lifting weights or something — and I watched as one kid, couldn't be more than eight, sank a beautiful free throw, punching his fists in the air in triumph, his brothers' mouths opening wide.
Today I watched a mother and son, around nine or ten I'd guess, playing one on one. The boy was shooting and mom was guarding him. I'm no expert, but that woman must've played basketball in high school or college — she moved easily, and she blocked his shots. It was a real game. I could see the concentration on both their faces as they worked hard to beat each other.
There's an elderly couple who come to the track from time to time. She uses a walker and moves very slowly, next to the wall; he walks behind her, since there's no room to walk abreast and let others pass. They circle the track one time, pausing every few steps to rest. Usually they go the "wrong" way, but it's clear that it makes one or both of them nervous not to be able to see the folks coming up behind them; I'm not going to turn them in.
And there's my nine-year-old, bent over his baby brother among the Pilates balls on the mats in the little alcove with the "Stretching Guidelines" posters on the wall, playing This Little Piggy for a nickel a minute while I work my way back up to speed.
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