Dreadmills and One Less Egg to Fry

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s red wine served room temperature third world problems snow in late March Poise pad wedgies treadmills.  I know I’m not alone in this.

Other than the time a few months back when I tested out my new shoes on a 3-mile run so I could return them if necessary, I haven’t been on a treadmill in at least 4 years.

 

I’d rather bundle up and crack off snotsicles or get soaked in the rain than get on one of those things.  I just despise them.  They don’t feel right.  I don’t keep my balance well and always feel like I’m going to fall off, so I end up right on the front bar with my arms up too high.  I don’t run on a treadmill with a natural gait.  I hear myself bouncing.  I feel my badonkadonk.  You just don’t run the same on a treadmill as you do outside.  They’re boring on steroids.  Boredom kills, you know.

But I broke yesterday.  We’ve had more snow (my god, the snow!), and the streets weren’t looking that great.  My grandfather ended up in the hospital with pneumonia, so I took the boys up to see him, which we followed up with a yummy lunch at Winstead’s (a hamburger joint here in town.)

It was technically my second lunch of the day, but I couldn’t resist.  I scarfed my food down like a pro, then saw this on the ceiling…

 

Hmm.  Ick.

By the time we got home, it was close to 5:00, the streets looked a little icy, and (BONUS!) it was snowing again. I parked the boys in front of the Xbox like any loving mother would and made a decision.  I would go to the gym and knock out my 5 easy miles on the morosemill, the dredgemill, the very thing I despise most in the world next to ignorance and poverty.

Of course the mills were packed together.  Of course the gym was blazing hot and pumping stinky recycled air, like some hulkster was standing in front of the vent forcing all air to pass through his hairy pits.

I found a car across the street that I could focus on for balance and just started cranking it out.  I felt much better when a young chickie hopped on next to me and had trouble keeping a 5.5 mph pace for three miles (yes, I feed on others’ weakness, and no, I won’t apologize.)  I felt much worse when some NBA-height player hopped on my other side and started loping along at what seemed like a similar pace and effort but was really an 8.2 setting compared to my lowly 6.0.  I hate tall runners and curse my Native American genes for keeping me at 5’7″.

I finished, but that’s about all I can say about the experience that’s positive.  Oh, and I was a sweaty mess after thanks to the broil setting of the heater.  

I admire the ladies who leave the gym looking all pretty and enthused, perhaps dabbing their underarms gently with a cute little towel.  I looked like this…

 

It’s my sweaty bitter face.  You’re welcome.

I’m headed out to see my grandmother at the nursing home today, then I will crank my 5-miler out on the streets, thank you very much and ice be damned.  Seriously, I think the roads are better, so it should be fine.  Anything’s better than the treadmill—and to the runners who are forced to run their miles on treadmills for childcare/weather/location/scheduling/whatever kind of issues, you have my respect and admiration.  I salute you.

In other quick news, HH, dude magnet, left yesterday for a long time.  It seems there’s some trial in Florida and he’s expected to do his job and be there for it.  So now I do my job and keep up the fort here.  I am missing him already and singing lots of Marilyn McCoo and The Fifth Dimension to myself.

One less man to pick up after.  Boo.

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