I used to be quite a runner. Not
fast or remarkable, but consistent. When my husband was just a new boyfriend, I
was training for the Chicago marathon. Aside from the usual challenges of
working up to that kind of run, there was the added obstacle of the weather.
The Chicago marathon is in the fall, which meant that the bulk of my longest
runs would occur during August. August in Austin is, well, hot. Miserably,
unendingly hot. Sort of the opposite of January in Buffalo.
Because we were in the early stages of courtship, my new boyfriend and I were all about "doing things together." Even boring, mundane stupid things. Things where even though you say you're going to do them together, you really, well, can't. Like working out. You're on the leg press machine, he's trying to figure out the Gravitron. Not much room for intimacy building. But, as with many stories with traumatic endings, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
So when it eventually became clear that our work out styles and preferences really were completely misaligned, we gave up the pretense of this being a couple-bonding opportunity. He headed downstairs to the pool, and I decided it was a good chance to get in a nice long air-conditioned run. On the treadmill.
Treadmill. Mill. As in something rotary that grinds.
It all started fine enough. The line of treadmills wasn't that crowded. So I picked one in the middle, situated under a television that had something tolerably distracting on.
I get all the settings set: incline (check), pace (check), workout time (check), weight, for the calculation of calories burned (check, check). And then I'm running. I'm a little awkward at first; running on a narrow rotating band is not anything like running around a trail. I had no idea, for example, that I am not a very orderly runner. I tend to list to the right and then the left. Like a drunken sailor. And much like a drunken sailor, I started feeling a little bit cocky. I think, "Gee, I could kinda get used to this." I start looking around. To see if there is anyone worth checking out. I'm suddenly way more conscious than I ever am running outside of my running form, how much my shorts are riding up, and how the lighting at the gym is vaguely reminiscent of a department store changing room.
And then, I fall.
It happened that quickly. My subtle listing caused one of my feet to step momentarily off the mill. And there I was, going down hard, both feet completely swept out from under me.
And, quite naturally, as I fell, I reached out to stop myself: I grabbed the handrail at the front of the treadmill.
The end result was, well, to transform the treadmill into a human belt sander.
Time moves very slowly.
After many long seconds, it occurs to me to let go of the handrail. Which I finally did. And the treadmill kindly shoots me off and out onto the floor of the gym.
I'm a bit dazed. To suddenly be staring up at the ceiling.
A guy comes up. Unfortunately cute, young, spandexed in a biker sort of way. "Are you OK?" And offers me a hand to help me up.
Here is the thing about these kind of comedic/tragic stories: They always end up illustrating way more about you, your inner workings, motivations and limitations, than you would ever willingly share. For example, there are so many possible next steps to this story.
For me, the only acceptable one was to get back on the treadmill and finish my workout.
Which I did.
Although, at one point, I did surreptitiously do a quick check for bodily injury. Have you ever injured yourself, and had the visual of the wound register more quickly than the sensation of pain? It took a surprisingly long time for me to notice that my left elbow, left knee, and back were stinging, horribly.
But I completed the workout. I did.
Shakily, downstairs in the women's locker room, in a stall with the door firmly locked, I surveyed the damage.
The deep abrasions on the elbow and knee were as expected. But the back. Well. Let's just say that every bony point along my lower spine had been abraded off. It looked like a really, really bad carpet burn from some really, really rough sex. Handcuffs, whips, and a ball gag rough.
My first thought was, I'm scarred for life. I'll never wear a bikini again. And I briefly thought about not mentioning this little accident to my fairly new boyfriend. As if he wouldn't have noticed it. Eventually.
And that was the last time I ran on a treadmill. And, seriously, just walking past one in a gym is enough to give me the heebie-jeebies, down my, uh, spine.
I still wonder about that guy, though. You know, the one who gave me a hand up? I wonder about the story he must have told/is still telling. Because honestly it must have been quite a sight.
Did I mention that I hate treadmills?
Especially that mill part of them.
Because we were in the early stages of courtship, my new boyfriend and I were all about "doing things together." Even boring, mundane stupid things. Things where even though you say you're going to do them together, you really, well, can't. Like working out. You're on the leg press machine, he's trying to figure out the Gravitron. Not much room for intimacy building. But, as with many stories with traumatic endings, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
So when it eventually became clear that our work out styles and preferences really were completely misaligned, we gave up the pretense of this being a couple-bonding opportunity. He headed downstairs to the pool, and I decided it was a good chance to get in a nice long air-conditioned run. On the treadmill.
Treadmill. Mill. As in something rotary that grinds.
It all started fine enough. The line of treadmills wasn't that crowded. So I picked one in the middle, situated under a television that had something tolerably distracting on.
I get all the settings set: incline (check), pace (check), workout time (check), weight, for the calculation of calories burned (check, check). And then I'm running. I'm a little awkward at first; running on a narrow rotating band is not anything like running around a trail. I had no idea, for example, that I am not a very orderly runner. I tend to list to the right and then the left. Like a drunken sailor. And much like a drunken sailor, I started feeling a little bit cocky. I think, "Gee, I could kinda get used to this." I start looking around. To see if there is anyone worth checking out. I'm suddenly way more conscious than I ever am running outside of my running form, how much my shorts are riding up, and how the lighting at the gym is vaguely reminiscent of a department store changing room.
And then, I fall.
It happened that quickly. My subtle listing caused one of my feet to step momentarily off the mill. And there I was, going down hard, both feet completely swept out from under me.
And, quite naturally, as I fell, I reached out to stop myself: I grabbed the handrail at the front of the treadmill.
The end result was, well, to transform the treadmill into a human belt sander.
Time moves very slowly.
After many long seconds, it occurs to me to let go of the handrail. Which I finally did. And the treadmill kindly shoots me off and out onto the floor of the gym.
I'm a bit dazed. To suddenly be staring up at the ceiling.
A guy comes up. Unfortunately cute, young, spandexed in a biker sort of way. "Are you OK?" And offers me a hand to help me up.
Here is the thing about these kind of comedic/tragic stories: They always end up illustrating way more about you, your inner workings, motivations and limitations, than you would ever willingly share. For example, there are so many possible next steps to this story.
For me, the only acceptable one was to get back on the treadmill and finish my workout.
Which I did.
Although, at one point, I did surreptitiously do a quick check for bodily injury. Have you ever injured yourself, and had the visual of the wound register more quickly than the sensation of pain? It took a surprisingly long time for me to notice that my left elbow, left knee, and back were stinging, horribly.
But I completed the workout. I did.
Shakily, downstairs in the women's locker room, in a stall with the door firmly locked, I surveyed the damage.
The deep abrasions on the elbow and knee were as expected. But the back. Well. Let's just say that every bony point along my lower spine had been abraded off. It looked like a really, really bad carpet burn from some really, really rough sex. Handcuffs, whips, and a ball gag rough.
My first thought was, I'm scarred for life. I'll never wear a bikini again. And I briefly thought about not mentioning this little accident to my fairly new boyfriend. As if he wouldn't have noticed it. Eventually.
And that was the last time I ran on a treadmill. And, seriously, just walking past one in a gym is enough to give me the heebie-jeebies, down my, uh, spine.
I still wonder about that guy, though. You know, the one who gave me a hand up? I wonder about the story he must have told/is still telling. Because honestly it must have been quite a sight.
Did I mention that I hate treadmills?
Especially that mill part of them.