The Treadmill

Yo. Yesterday my mom and I flew to NY to meet up with my sister. On the plane ride out here I read part of Born to Run by Christopher McDougall. It is not a motivational self-help book for novice runners, although the title gives off that idea. It's this crazy account of this tribe in Mexico's Copper Canyons. They run hundreds of miles at a time. They play this "game" where they chase after a ball for hours or days, depending on what they feel like doing. Game? Really?? Anyways, it's really interesting and pretty quick if you're lookin' for a good book.

Today I needed to run 3 miles. Friday I need to run 8.

Here's what I thought- Oh, New York. Central Park. Neighborhood Parks. Cool things going on everywhere. Three miles, eight miles, those will be awesome runs for sure! I will probably get so caught up in the city around me that I'll be done in no time!!

Wrong. Wrong. wrong.

My mom informed me that I would not be running outside. "There are drug deals happening on every corner! Everyone is on drugs! You will definitely be attacked if you think about running anywhere near where we're staying." (After this discussion, she pulled out a huge heating wand she packed in her bag to kill any bed bugs in our hotel room... footage to come)

So I turned to my trusty friend, Wikipedia, which confirmed my assumption that the neighborhood is not in a state of anarchy or overrun by drug lords. Surprise.

But, to appease my mother, I went in search of the hotel gym this morning. It is located in the basement. I think it was one of those things where they wanted to put "exercise room" on their website, so they threw a treadmill in the basement.

I walked into the "exercise room" and was relieved to find the treadmill not in use, but once I got on it- I questioned whether it was actually able to be "in use." I went through my workout playlist at least twice, but my eyes kept flicking down to the panel and seeing the meager mileage I'd gone. I started telling myself- okay when the song ends, you can look down. But since I only had a brick wall to stare at, my eyes would automatically move towards the panel and I'd glimpse just how little progress I was making. It's kind of like a car wreck on the side of the road, you just can't look away.

When I run outside, if I stop at 2 miles, I've still got to run 2 miles to get back to where I started. On a treadmill, all I've got to do is tap the little red stop button and call it quits. Also, I have this fear that I'm going to trip (I tend to do that) and smack my head into the front of the treadmill and slid off the end of the treadmill into a bloody heap on the floor. So, the whole time I was fearing for my life! Not to mention, I was in this closet-like room, which no other guest probably cares to look at because most people I've seen riding the elevators are plaid wearing, fingerless glove donning hipsters who appear to have no desire to workout and probably aren't physically able to, due to the tightness of their skinny jeans (I'm not hating on skinny jeans (wearing them), plaid (wearing it), or fingerless gloves (bought a pair today)). But, the point is, my mangled limbs would never be found until the hipsters wanted a vintage treadmill for their newly purchased loft in Hoboken!

ANYWAYS, I eventually completed 3 miles and prayed I wouldn't run into one of the cute hotel employees as I headed back up to my room.

I'm not running 8 miles on that treadmill. I'd rather venture out into the depravity and run for dear life.