I gave the older gentleman whose white socks where pulled up to his knees a confused look.
He repeated again this time raising his voice and sniffing at me, “You CAN’T talk on your cell phone!”
I hit the pause button the treadmill and answered, “but I’m talking with my mom!”
As part of my 2012 goals, I’m re-dedicating myself to working out with a focus on overcoming my disgust of treadmills. Given that I live in Denver and given that I’m 100% a baby about the cold (plus I have asthma, which actually doesn’t work well when running in the cold), I have had to take up running on a treadmill. My disgust for treadmills worked its way into my mind years ago when growing up in the bitter cold of northern Ohio forced me to begin running on them. There is nothing about them that appeals to me: I most often feel like the hamster that runs and runs and runs on his wheel. At least that poor guy never quite comprehends he’s going nowhere. I, however, always know that I’m headed nowhere. I am constantly checking my mileage; I find myself walking more than I run; and I swear I don’t burn as many calories as I would running outside. And, though in most things I’m highly competitive, I’m not the kinda girl who takes on the person next me as a good friend recently confessed she does. She mentioned that when someone gets on the treadmill next to her and starts going fasters, she, too, must go faster. I tend to pick the treadmill at the end of the line and only look at the person next to me if absolutely necessary like when their sweat works it way onto my arm or when their tiny body with their super flat belly that’s covered only in tight yoga pants and a sports bra is teasing me to look and be jealous, do I glance over with a look of pure disgust while thinking “cover up your ridiculously skinny body.” To me there is nothing enjoyable about the treadmill; yet, I force myself to go since another important goal of mine for 2012 is to rid my body of the Dissertation 20. Thus, four times a week at the acceptable time of 10 or 10:30, I find myself on a treadmill.
Which brings me to the older gentleman. The other day my mom asked me if I have seen any attractive men at the gym, and as I sauntered up the treadmill the next morning (in my best knock-off of Jennifer Beals’ outfit-- sexy shoulder and all), I checked out the pickings. A quick once-over told me that my only choices were three older men. Now, when I say “older” I don’t mean like 50s or even 60s, I’m talking white socks pulled up to their knees-baggy khaki shorts-with black running shoes kind of older men. Every morning I run on the treadmill and my view is blocked by the three of them reading the New York Times and Denver Post while riding the stationary bikes. One of the three has taken an instant dislike to me, which he reminds me of over and over again with death stares done over top his thick- rimmed silver glasses. Maybe it was the off the shoulder shirt that he didn’t like. The same morning I noticed these men, my mom called to check-in. Not realizing I was doing anything wrong, I picked up. Two minutes into the conversation, the older gentleman yelled at me while still riding his bike and reading his paper. After that incident, I’ve also placed my coat in the wrong area, had my Word-with-Friends volume up to loud, and accidently glanced over at him all of which has him shooting me dagger looks and loudly complaining about today’s youth. I’m just flattered he called me today’s youth. But it gets me to another good reason to be disgusted with the treadmill. I get yelled at while on it.
Reason #3 comes in the form of music. Up until very recently (like 2011), I never ran with headphones. I tend to like to think on my runs, or better yet, I like to talk and sing. Normally, I only talk and sing when running with a partner, but sometimes when I’m working through a big problem—whether it’s personal or academic—and I’m alone, I’ll talk to myself. I wrote many a job talk interviews that way last year. When I decided to start using headphones, I, of course, picked out fun and fast-paced running music. Just as I was getting use to music, my I-pod broke. I figured no problem—I’ll just use JT’s I-pod. Wednesday morning rolls around, I hop on the treadmill, throw in the headphones and attempt to start jamming out. All-American Rejects come blasting through first. Then an old Justin Timberlake song. I’ve just talked myself into actually running and not walking when BAM! an act from Don Giovanni starts. Completed confused, I switch songs. Up next is the Four Tenors. My running is complete ruined for the morning, and I spend the next 20 min walking and thinking who can work out to this stuff?!? JT’s I-Pod is riddled with a mixture of pop, rock, punk…and opera. I can no longer use the I-pod for fear of stumbling upon a slow-paced, non-English aria. Totally kills the mood for running. For several days, I wondered about how JT could work out to this weird, er, eclectic mix of music when we both headed over to the gym one Saturday morning. Gearing up on the treadmill for my long—ok, short—run, I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. JT was on an elliptical conducting with one hand, holding on to the handle with the other, and openly singing whatever opera popped up. That day I learned two things: (1) apparently, some people can work out to opera; and (2) ironically, I’m not the only one that gets eye daggers thrown at them from the older gentleman.
I’m not sure if or how I’ll get over my disgust of treadmills. As long as I’m living in a cold climate, I suppose I need to. But like many things in my life, I resist the treadmill. I question its truth and what it thinks it can offer me. I internally debate over being honest with it about my real weight to see how many calories I burn (I may lie…). I mentally envision myself tripping and being thrown backward off of it and then laying on the ground while the older gentleman continues to read his paper and peddle away. And, I talk trash to it inside my head as I attempt to run, walk, run, walk my 2.5 miles (ok, it’s more like 2 miles) often calling it names and belittling it for being a machine making me sweat. There is no love lost between it and me, and when I leave I feel it mock me when I step back off it and glance at my mileage, time, and calories-burned—taunting me with it’s numbers. So as I turn to leave, I pick up my coat, hat, and gloves, and I start singing the last scene from Don Giovanni where the ghost of the Commendatore comes to drag him to the underworld, “DON GIO—VANNI!” in my best deep voice aiming it towards the treadmill and leaving the implied hostility hanging on my last note.
