by Josh Dale
Ozzy Osbourne is dead. I got $925 left to my name. Rent’s due next week. I gained 20 pounds while eating the menu at Golden Crust Pizza and drinking Budweiser every night for months. I’m 42, almost turning 43. My hairline’s shot. I sweat in places I couldn’t imagine. My gut is a balloon and my ass jiggles too much for my liking. My heart’s been racing. Never mind all the atrocities in this unforgiving world.
Except for me. I’m changing.
I signed up for a gym yesterday. Gonna start slow at first. I haven’t touched a dumbbell in a decade; treadmill since my 20s. Gonna get my flabby arms in check. Lose that gross inner thigh fat that makes my dick look tiny…Yeah, fuck that. I can still bang the drums. Hell yeah! Get a little stronger. Sweat off the beer belly. Get my cholesterol down. Hypertension be damned. If the Prince of Darkness can’t cheat death, I sure as hell can’t.
My first workout is at night. 10:45 PM. I tie a hand towel around my arm. Grocery bag with a bottle of Gatorade and a bag of mixed nuts. An iPod with 666 tracks. My old-ass DCs that have stepped in mud, piss, and shit are ready to run. I am ready to go to war. My target: depression. My goal: jog for an hour and howl at 11:58 PM. Heroes gotta start somewhere.
I scan my ID at the vacant front desk and flee to the concentrated cardio room. It is a musty, insulated box: a treadmill, a bench, dimmed fluorescent lights, and my thoughts. I put my Black Sabbath playlist on shuffle and set my shit down. I step onto the guardrails and adjust the speed to 2.5 MPH. I try to touch my toes, stretching over my gut. Barely to my knees. Fuck, It’s almost 11, I gotta start.
This is the last day of feeling like a piece of shit. I remind myself. I hum the melodies as they play. Gotta psych myself up. I watch the belt. A deep scrape zooms by every 2 seconds. I watch and watch as I get ready to embark. My legs are shaking as I step off the guard rails. My tribute to the metal gods above. Alright, here I go…
A few minutes, okay, not bad. A couple of tracks in, and I get bored. Staring at the same blob of shitty paint directly in front of me. C’mon, Ozzman, help me out here. I pump it up to 3, then 3.2 MPH. I’m fatigued within 10 minutes. I feel my heart pounding. It starts to hurt. I hear the pounding in my ears. Dizziness is kicking in. I spill Gatorade over my stubbled face. Fuck. It’s not even 11:30.
Sweat blooms all over my old Suffocation t-shirt. It’s faded brown from years of mosh pits, the hot sun, the sweat and spit from hundreds of other metalheads like me. I miss them, but do they miss me? No time for contemplation! My arms are pumping, making my shoulders sore. My arches feel like they’re going to snap. I’m wheezing like a chain smoker. But like a forsaken warrior, I push harder. For honor & glory.
5 MPH for the last 5 minutes.
I reach for my iPod, put on the “Before You Off Yourself Tell Life Fuck Off!” playlist. The fast ones. The brutal ones. The songs that force my demons to obey. The room is musty. My heart rate is over 180 BPM as I hold the handlebars with a death grip. The fat on my body shakes so bad it hurts. Everything hurts. But this stupid machine doesn’t know I’m powered by death metal. I scream, “If my heart rate…isn’t matching my metal…I’m dead as shit!”
My right foot drags. The belt rips. I trip. I fall. I hit my head. My heart is still racing, then it stops. It all goes dark, then brightens again. I can see him. Ozzy! Oh shit, Randy Rhodes, too. The Pearly Gates look magnificent. I died a hero’s death, right, guys? Will you flash the horns for me, too?
Josh Dale
Author of RAGE:Stories & The Light to Never Be Snuffed & Duality Lies Beneath
Founder and Editor-in-Chief of Thirty West Publishing House
Subscribe to my Substack, Backroads Driving/Windows Down
Visit my author website