This is definitely one of those undeniably embarrassing moments that I guarantee you’ll never see coming. My unfortunate ordeal actually took place a number of weeks ago, but it was not until now that I have mustered enough courage to speak freely. I kid you not, that fateful day I actually thought to myself, “Wow, I wonder why more people don’t fall on the treadmill… It seems like such an accident-ready machine.” Well, let me tell you first hand, the treadmill is a nasty, nasty, devilish tool of bodily destruction.

I was at the RSF (Recreational Sports Facility, Cal’s student gym) gunning it at 8.5 on the speed scale. Now, if you’ve ever ran on a treadmill, 8.5 is pretty fast and incredibly unnecessary, but I wasn’t joking around.

I saw the reflection of a friend of mine in the glass window in front of me, and as I turned around to greet Simon, I unwittingly shifted left and stepped directly on the non-moving portion of the spinning track beneath me. For lack of better diction, when you’re sprinting full speed ahead that stationary plate on the side of the treadmill apparently messes you the hell up.

My body was somehow flung backwards as I instinctively shot both of my hands out to grasp the handrails (my flailing 135lb frame miraculously never touched the ground). Against all common sense and to the shock of my two innocently exercising female neighbors, I idiotically attempted to clamor back onto the pride-devouring-monster as the tread slashed at my exposed shins (think rug burn meets slamming your shin into a stair-step). But don’t worry; it was only a flesh wound.

Most likely laughing his face off, God took pity on my oh-so-pitiful efforts. I somehow managed to monkey-crawl back onto the torture device and immediately continued running at my blistering pace as if nothing had happened in those previous life threatening seconds. After tunnel visioning my next 15 minutes on the treadmill—to make sure that any soul who had witnessed my brush with certifiable death had exited the premises—I lightly hopped off and headed to the locker room as if nothing had happened.

But really, I had just emerged from another one of life’s valuable lesson laden, work-out machine, death-dealing encounters.

Labels: accident, exercise, injury, running, treadmill

New Year’s Eve for me has always been an entirely random occurrence, and this year was definitely no exception. I remember ringing in 2006 with Dance Dance Revolution and Midnight Ice Blocking with three close friends… Then there was 2007: a beautifully crafted get-together of Catch-Phrase, some unspecified movie (most likely “You’ve Got Mail”), and some Italian exchange student boy in an argyle sweater whose name I have surprisingly forgotten.

Delightfully surpassing my expectations this year was the first annual New Year’s Classic (NYC): a no-holds-bar octathlon of unrivaled intellectual and physical proportions.

In short, the ’08 festivities involved Sean and I constructing an elaborate plan to coordinate an epic competition that spiraled into two teams of three engaging in extreme Cranium (where all team members’ hands were lashed together with abrasive twine), Wise & Otherwise, and naturally, a laser-sight NERF gun death-match. After the traditional opening ceremonies of the Tiki-torch lighting (in sub-freezing outside temperatures) and the usual burning of the sacred scroll, it became apparent that “Clan O’Reilly Factor National Olympics Squad” would emerge victorious over team “*click*click-naAH-naAH-caw-caw-THE-AVALANCHE-IS-COMIN!” with a convincing 120,000 point margin. (Unfortunately, due to poor planning, we only completed three of the six specified events; however, there are talks about finishing out the remaining NYC contests: “Iron-Chef-style” baking, Canasta, and Karaoke).

Otherwise, I had originally planned to recap a few prime moments from 2007, but I think they’d be better served as singular ramblings down the road. I have a few resolutions in mind that involve making quicker decisions as well as no longer saying “Uh” on the phone, but as always we’ll see. It’s just past midnight now meaning New Year’s Day has come to a close, and I think I’ll turn in. Happy New Year and I hope your following 365 are filled with good fortune, love, money, power, knowledge, messenger bags, large three-dimensional national monument replica puzzles, treasured American Indian relics, and whatever else your little heart desires.

Oh, and his name was Nicolo. The argyle-sweater-wearing Italian stallion was definitely named Nicolo.

Labels: celebration, Cranium, NERF, New Years