Jogging on the treadmill is not my preferred method of working out. Trust me, working out in the world not only goes faster, but offers much more engaging scenery.
However, when Mother Nature downpours, I have 2 options for my long run schedule: fuggetaboudit and feel guilty all week long plus make it even harder for myself on the next long run, or suck it up and do it at the gym.
I can handle 3.5 miles on the gym treadmill, not that bad, but this long run was 6.6 miles long. At my slow pace, about a 15 minute mile, that’s 1.5 hours. So, I now have a new realization about the gym treadmill.
The treadmill at the gym is Purgatory. It is a state of limbo, of going somewhere-nowhere. If you prefer the Greco-Roman mythology, the gym treadmill is Tartarus. The display tells me I’ve gone 3 miles, yet here I am, staring at the same broken TV screen that has a pixelated picture of some sports journalist, frozen in time. I watch as EVERYONE else comes, goes, probably wins the lottery in the time it takes me to finish.
The only thing that keeps me sane is completely covering the display with my hand towel. I have ABSOLUTELY no desire to watch numbers infuriatingly go up by .01 mile. The treadmill display is cruel like that. I try to look away, only to see above me the same pixelated frozen frame of the Philidelphia reporter, her long, blonde hair like one of those cut-outs where you can change the face to someone else’s. You’d think I’d remember her name since I looked up at it every other second. I suppose that’s how repression works.
My saving grace is music. Since there’s nothing to look at in purgatory except a display that moves up .01 miles in what feels like a minute or at Miss Philadelphia’s blurred square face, I’m able to drown my boredom in music.
Don’t get me wrong. This boredom had nothing to do with easiness. Wogging 6.6 miles gave me the feeling of an out-of-body experience, since all I wanted to do during this long run was forget that I even had a body. Well, I didn’t run the entirety; I’m not that talented. I walked .25 at the beginning and .6 at the end.
Still…I did it. Yup, folks, I’ve passed the 6 mile mark. This magical number has held such mystery for me. I always thought that if I could run 6 miles, I’d be one of those gorgeously athletic runners. Ha…reality, like the treadmill, is a malicious jokester.