I like to run. (Shocking!) I might even go as far as to say I love to run. Occasionally. On Tuesdays. After 6 p.m. But treadmills are pretty much the bane of my existence. The absolute, God-awful, bane of my entire purpose on this planet. Because they suck. And there's really no intellectual adjective to use in order to describe the experience.

Because I'm a total wimp and refuse to run in the dark in my new neighborhood, which is very wide and open-y, prime breeding grounds for murderers, etc., obviously, I choose to utilize the workout facility at the apartment complex. In other words, the treadmill.


I-hate-it-so-much. It makes my head hurt just thinking about it. The room, itself, is small. And stuffy. The walls, bare. The treadmill goes nowhere, and all I do for miles on end is stare at the clock that is counting down the number of minutes I have left until the awful experience is over.

Only 44 minutes, 32 seconds and 18 lifetimes left to go!

I can't seem to allow my mind to wander away from the timer. I try to cover it with a towel, but that tactic lasts about 28 seconds until the suspense kills me. I NEED to know how much time is left. Need.

I toggle the display to show calorie count, instead of the timer, and I find myself gauging the time in burnt calories.

Let's see, I've burnt 78 calories, which means I have to burn 22 more to make it one mile, and about 422 more to reach my goal, which equates to about ENTIRELY TOO LONG ON THIS GODDAMN MACHINE.

An 8-minute, 30-second pace is about a speed of 7 on the treadmill, but when I set the speed at 7, I feel like my legs can't catch up, and I mentally berate myself for my inability to run. Yet, when I take my Garmin outside for a run, I can run an 8-minute, 30-second pace with ease.

The treadmill plays with my mind.

But there is really no way around it, if I plan on running in the dark, which is the case every single day of my life, it seems. And tonight, I'll be back.

I've got 614 calories to burn.