Treadmill Fantasy

I hate treadmills. Not with the simple hate of someone who just doesn't want to exercise, but with the hate you have for an enemy that you know is out to get you.

But I use them. I use them because you can't always use the other machines. And once you've gotten dressed and grabbed your iPod and have gotten mentally prepared for a good hour of sweating, it's like you're letting yourself down to just drive home, eat a bowl of cereal and watch Seinfeld.

But I know that if I let my guard down for one moment, it's going to get me. My feet, usually uncommonly steady even while walking in heels over the unpaved street I have to cross every day while trotting across campus, I just know my feet in their big sneakers are going to trip over themselves. Or that the machine is going to all of a sudden speed up while I'm on it. And then, God forbid, I will wipe out, and because I didn't clip the little red thingy to my shirt, the rubber track will ka-thunk, ka-thunk against my face as I lay there, half-splayed on the carpet, "Goodbye to You" by Michelle Branch playing softly from the earbuds of my iPod.

I think I was scarred by watching someone go through this very thing during my early days of joining a gym (without the Michelle Branch and melodrama). And God love her, she got back up and on the machine, only to trip a second time, then slink off in utter shame never to be seen again, probably to drown her sorrows with Gatorade.

Which is why I typically have a deathgrip on those things. I try to play it cool, like I just want to make sure I can check my heart rate by keeping my hands centered on the metal sensors, but having to continually wipe my sweaty palms against my shirt is a little bit of a giveaway. I keep my focus on the placement of my feet, but try really hard not to actually stare at my feet, which you know will only have the opposite effect and cause you to fall. Mind you, this is all with the machine set at a brisk walk, because I don't dare run.

Although today, for the first time, I actually had the urge to run. I don't know if it was the smell of the sweat that kept wafting past but I just wanted to go and go and not stop.

I wish I could say that I did let go of my fear and ran my heart out. Instead, I thought up an elaborate plan of coming to the gym at 6 a.m. on a Saturday so I could try without an audience, and had a weird fantasy about the guy next to me sensing my fear, grabbing my hand and helping me defeat the treadmill (he seemed pretty into the female mind...he was reading a Charlayne Harris novel after all as he also walked on his treadmill, dignified and at a brisk pace, next to me). But instead, I jumped off, almost running into the elliptical behind me, gathered up my dignity and went downstairs to run on the track. Running on actual ground is kind of retro, but as I rounded the last lap with who else but Michelle Branch to close me out, my feet going ka-thunk, ka-thunk against the rubberized ground, I felt pretty vindicated. And looked darn good doing it.