One week down, five more to go.

On my way to work this morning, which is located about a half-mile from my home, I got stopped by a strange woman in a Land Crusier with Arizona license plates. She pulled off a busy road and into a parking lot, rolled down her window and asked me if I wanted a ride to wherever I was going. She said I appeared to be in pain (I wasn't).

I explained to her that I was simply tired but that I only had a few blocks to go, so I could manage the rest of the trip on my feet. She told me her destination and emphasized that she would be happy to drive me. Again, I said no thanks.

Yesterday, an older Italian man coming out of a building startled me when he exclaimed, "Oh my gosh! What happened to you?" When I told him that I suffered a stress fracture due to running, he cautioned, "You have to be careful!"

Tonight at L.A. Fitness, a woman commented on how she thought it was great I was working out despite my injury. She's a fellow runner and could empathize with my desire and need to keep up my fitness level. We talked about injuries for a while, and then I went on my merry way to the stationary bike. 

This morning's situation might have been unusual, say, eight days ago. But ever since the doctor ordered I use crutches, strangers stopping me on the street, at the gym or in the locker room has become common place. Strangers are offering me rides and opening doors. They're asking me about my injury. They're concerned. Colleagues and friends are offering to take me to the grocery store or run an errand for me. As my friend Emma predicted, I'm getting a peek at the human condition.

Ab power

If you asked me what I want to get out of running and exercising, besides a Boston Marathon qualifying time, I would tell you that I want abs of steel. And not just any abs of steel, but Lolo Jones, six-pack abs.

I'm neither an Olympian nor a consumer of only healthy foods (I have a child-like love affair with candy. Milk Duds, Sour Patch Kids and licorice make me happy).

But knowledge is on my side, and knowledge is ab power. After soaking up the latest issue of Runners' World this week and watching ab and core exercises, I think I might be on my way to having ab power.

Today I sucked up my fear of male gawkers at the gym and did the exercise in the video below, even though I felt slightly foolish. Oh, and I did the "cheerleader."

Abs of steel are just around the corner. Right?

The personal fitness assessment.

I have fainted only once in my 26 years. I was on the job, interviewing a couple who owned an outfitter store in Winona, Minn.

I abruptly ended the interview and was on my way out of the store to cool off when my world went dark. I tumbled, taking down the store displays with me. Except for scraped hands and knees and bruised pride, I was OK. I drank some water, flattened my skirt, walked out of the store and returned to work for a day just like any other.

Today, I thought I might faint for the second time in my life. Boys and girls, this was not in my head.* I thought, one more lift or squat or push-up, and I might keel over. Right here. In this stretching room. How embarrassing. I would be that girl.

And I've run marathons. What kind of distance runner faints while lifting a 10-pound weight?

I was in the middle of my personal fitness assessment with a trainer, who I thought would weigh me and check my body fat, go over my goals, show me around the gym and send me on my merry way. But my appointment with the trainer turned out to be a real kick-in-the-ass workout. OK, so the trainer didn't literally kick me in the ass, but he was close. During a wall push-up, he pushed against my shoulders. And again during a squat.

In the stretching room -- thank God we didn't have to venture into Man's Land, as my cousin Abby calls it -- the trainer set up a circuit station with five and 10-pounds weights, a platform and a BOSU trainer (half ball). We moved from one exercise to another with little or no break. I squatted using multiple techniques. I did push-ups. Two kinds. I never do push-ups. I did crunches.

I sweat more than I've probably ever sweat running. The sweat glistened. It glistened! Even though I had told my trainer that I wanted to look more toned, I thought to myself while lifting that I looked pretty darn good, hot, maybe, in the only way a sweaty girl can look hot while exercising.

As much as I loved hearing, "Brady, that's perfect," or "Brady, push hard," or "Brady, just one more for good luck," I could only do so much. With each lift, I grew more tired and weaker. I left the stretching room to get water twice, and I had to take a few breaks, even though the trainer wanted me to keep my heart rate up and keep going. I didn't want to be a wimp. Really, I didn't. But I told him I felt faint and sick to my stomach. So in the middle of crunches, during a self-imposed pause, the trainer deemed our session over.

I lasted less than 20 minutes. I may be a runner, but I've never experienced true conditioning in my life.

My fitness assessment ended with a sales pitch, as I knew it would. My trainer, who was accompanied by the general training manager, because I was the trainer's first client (lucky me), recommended I sign up for a year's worth of training sessions, which cost $40 each, and participate in three sessions a week. That adds up to thousands of dollars a year.

I told them that I could not, in good conscience, sign up for training sessions since neither I nor my husband have jobs. Their faces fell. But I promised them I wouldn't close the door on training and would consider it when I'm employed. I meant it. As much as I wanted to throw up on my trainer today, I would love for him to kick my butt again.** But maybe only once a week. Because, who are we kidding, thousands of dollars a year spent on someone who watches me lift weights? I'm not a Real Housewife of Orange County. I'm a Real Housewife of a Kellogg student, and resources (err...income) are limited these days.

After leaving the gym, I treated myself to a latte and called it a day. Tomorrow I will run, but I will give my arms and abs and butt a rest.

*The sole female trainer, Sarah, at the gym followed me inside the women's locker room and asked me what I had eaten for breakfast. She was in the stretching room during part of my assessment. I knew I would run before meeting with the trainer, so I only ate a banana with a little peanut butter. My stomach can't handle much before short runs. And even before a marathon, I stick to one slice of toast with peanut butter and a banana. Sarah told me that I should eat something hearty like oatmeal before intense conditioning and that I could run afterward. That way, I would burn more calories and put more distance between a hearty breakfast and my run. She added that the newbie trainer should have asked me what I had eaten for breakfast and that you can't work through feeling faint. I am thankful for Sarah's advice. Until she approached me, I really thought I was being a wimp during the assessment, that I wasn't sick at all and that it was all in my head.

**My trainer said that if I see him at the gym and he looks bored that I can ask him to help me out with conditioning. I wanted to ask, "And how much does that cost?" Rather, I just smiled and left.

Beef magnet.

I love to run, as you've probably deduced from reading this blog. I run outdoors throughout the year as long as the wind chill doesn't dip below zero. In the winter, though, I'm in the gym more than I'm outside.

I like the gym. Being around people who care about fitness motivates me. And I always feel a sense of pride stepping out of the gym. It's like, "Look at me. I work out. I am cool. Praise me."

Put me on the treadmill, and I'm comfortable. I belong there because I'm a runner -- for only three miles, maybe four if I'm feeling good, because I think the treadmill is the belt of hell. It's a necessity in the winter and so I withstand those three or four miles knowing I could run farther and longer outside but it's dark and cold and unsafe so the treadmill will just have to do.

Lead me to a weight room, and I am intimidated. I look around to make sure know one is watching me. Usually if there are too many men around, I don't even bother. When I'm brave, I work my biceps and triceps as quickly as possible and then go to my safe place -- a mat for crunches or to the locker room.

I have been brave three times in the last week. I've worked my Olive Oyl arms and haven't given a flip about the bodybuilders grunting next to me. They apparently care about me. I've been approached three times in the last week by two beefy male strangers and one not-so-beefy stranger.

Beefy man #1 teased me about wearing a tank and showing off my arms while doing bicep curls with 10-pound weights. I'm typically slow with comebacks and had no response. My sister told me I should have asked him if he needed a spotter. Next time, sister. Next time.

Beefy man #2 told me that I should try lifting heavier weights. He told me to try the 15-pounders and to take it slowly. So I tried the 15-pounders -- a first for me -- and quite enjoyed the slow burn. I thanked that man.

Today, not-so-beefy stranger #3 approached me mid-lift. He asked me what I was doing. What I wanted to say: "What does it look like macho man?" What I actually said: "Uh, I don't know." He asked me how I learned to lift and what my routine included. I told him that I didn't do much. In my defense, I added that I was a runner and not just any kind of runner, but a marathoner. I also told him that I didn't know my way around the gym yet because I hadn't been treated to my complimentary fitness assessment.

Well, today was my lucky day. Turns out not-so-beefy stranger #3 is a personal trainer employed by the gym. He recently started working there, and he is happy to give me a fitness assessment. So tomorrow at 11 a.m., I will meet with the newbie personal trainer to go over my goals and learn a few "routines."

This, I hope, will put an end to the unsolicited "help" from the many men at the gym.