I did not anticipate spending 19 miles with the treadmill over the weekend, but by God, that's what I did. I'm not sure how it happened, but I dare say I enjoyed it. Our relationship has flourished. About as much as a relationship between a human and an inanimate object can.
It's obviously a relationship of convenience, though. Do I want to spend the rest of my life with you, treadmill? No. But when it's time to cut the bullshit and hammer out the miles when outdoor running just isn't going to happen, you are perfect.
And when I tire of you, I can just tap the Emergency Stop button, and you turn off. Immediately.
Bliss? I think so.
The longest venture I could ever sustain on a treadmill prior to Saturday was six miles. It's generally my limit. Because three more steps past that point, after nearly an hour of staring at the clock, would cause me to claw off my face.
But on Saturday it just happened. Six miles, then seven. Eventually, nine. I did not get bored, I did not claw off my face. I just went. Besides, I totally spent the morning at a local pancake feed and had a few million pancakes and sausage links to burn off.
But Sunday it happened again. I found myself looking forward to the treadmill, which is just absurd.
Ten miles. I ran 10 miles on that bad boy yesterday. Ten miles in and of itself is not bizarre, but 10 miles on a conveyor belt is an entirely different story. (Yawn).
And so it was a fruitful weekend. I'm feeling good about my relationship with the treadmill. Pretty soon I might introduce him to my family.