This machine actually thought I was going to admit my real weight while there were people around. If I were comfortable with that information, I wouldn't have been on the damn machine in the first place.

So I lied. I entered a respectable number--my diastollic blood pressure. The machine beeped and asked me to enter my weight again. The person waiting in line behind me looked impatient. I smiled sheepishly and said, "I thought that meant ideal weight."

Then I realized that I was standing on the machine and that it probably had an internal scale to detect when people lied. I kept wondering if, after I left, the next person would be treated to the message, "Wooh! You're a lot lighter than the whale who was just on here." I briefly considered transferring to a river house.

I entered a number a little closer to reality--the last three numbers of the Cambridge ZIP code. Luckily, the evil machine did not challenge me.

It only made me pick my appropriately named torture. I had the options of "interval training" (intervals of two weeks, I hoped), "Pike's Peak" (for those who exercise in hiking boots instead of Reeboks), "random" (for my house assignment), "manual control" (for Gov. concentrators), "roller coaster" (the machine does a 360 while you climb), "lunar landing" (so you can space out while exercising) or "steady climb" (for underachievers).

I opted for roller coaster, reasoning that I could reasonably justify eating some cotton candy later. With all of the flashing lights and beeps, I thought it could be like a Nintendo for pre-professionals--pop a cartridge in and step all over the little stock market analysts.

As I was marching through my personal Coney Island, I started to get bored. There was nothing to look at but the muted orange decor of the upper level of the Q-RAC.

I imagined Sharper Image marketing a video-screen-equipped Stairmaster to go along with their similar stationary bikes.

The Sharper Image bicycles simulate riding down a road in the French countryside. For the Stairmaster, the videos would have to be more like a journey up the Eiffel Tower. Harvard-specialized Stairmasters could feature the dash up to the balcony of Sanders when you are late for class.

These thoughts were interrupted by the inescapable realization that I really wanted to trade in my Stairmaster for the yet-to-be-invented Elevatormaster.

My frustration grew when a curious bystander started to ask me questions.

"It doesn't seem as if you are taking big enough steps," this undernourished creature said.

"Oh, I see, it only lets you take eight-inch steps. That doesn't seem like very much. I thought this was like mountain climbing, but it's really only little steps," the pale fellow added.

I was about to take a very large step and kick him in the stomach.

"Doesn't this machine tell you how many calories you burn off?" he continued.