The perils of the treadmill: On hidden dangers at the gym
The situation: The second I walk into the gym, I’m a girl on a mission. There are only eight treadmills in the place, one of which must become mine for the maximum allowed time slot. Unfortunately, I choose to work out at the exact same time that everybody chooses to work out: That post-work, pre-dinner stretch of time that seems to exist specifically to allow people to take out the stress from their jobs on a variety of heavy-duty exercise equipment while simultaneously envisioning the food that they’re going to reward themselves with once they return home. Competition, therefore, is high. Which is why I sprint up the stairs from the lobby, breeze past the change rooms, power walk down the gauntlet of elliptical trainers, and screech to a halt in front of a gigantic translucent whiteboard in the centre of the gym – to scrawl my initials into the little box that instantly lays claim to a treadmill.
This time, though, I end up toe-to-toe with one of those perfectly coiffed, impeccably made up girls who seem to think that treadmills exist solely as a platform for conducting phone conversations, screeching gossip halfway across the gym, or flipping though the latest issue of Cosmopolitan. Her fingers close around the whiteboard pen at the same time as mine do, and I can see the determination in her eyes – there is only one treadmill left, one time slot remaining. For a moment, our eyes meet. Then I smile sweetly as I delicately slip the pen out of her hand, lunge at the whiteboard, and mark the treadmill as my own.
The lesson: Always arrive at the gym prepared to engage in hand-to-hand combat, even if one of those hands looks like it’s spent more time sprawled out on a manicurist’s table than anywhere else. Victory – or, at least the treadmill – will be yours.
The situation: I’m halfway through my workout, at that precise point where every ounce of initial energy has long since seeped out of the bottom of my running shoes and into the ground while my second wind hasn’t even begun to hit yet. I’m exhausted, but I won’t allow myself to slow the treadmill any more than the impossibly energetic girl next to me, whose perky ponytail is snapping back and forth like a whip as she sprints effortlessly along. As I run, I become aware of someone staring at me. A man – a massive, grinning man with arms approximately the width of a tree trunk and nearly no neck at all – has stepped onto the treadmill next to me and is now resting his arms casually on the edge of my treadmill.
“Hi”, he says, leaning towards me. I keep running, saying nothing and focusing intently on the bead of sweat inching its way down my nose. “I’ve been… enjoying the view from over there, if you know what I mean, and, uh…” He pauses to shift his tattered muscle shirt slightly, tattooed bicep flexing in the process. “Uh, I was wondering if you wanted to, you know, get a drink later.”
Flustered, I hit the treadmill’s bright red “stop” button, and the conveyer belt comes shuddering to an ungraceful halt. I am unimpressed, unable to speak without gasping for air, and, frankly, at a complete loss for words anyways, so I choose instead to shoot my very best effort at a withering, disdainful look in his direction – a look that should say so much without any words at all. I start up the treadmill again as the man just stands there staring blankly at me. Several minutes later, he straightens up, removes his arms from my treadmill, and arranges his face into a puzzled expression. “So… I guess that’s like, a no, then… right?”
The lesson: Ladies, with amazing specimens of humanity like this on the prowl, you have two choices: a) Start wearing your ugliest, most tattered, baggiest old clothes to the gym, or b) practice your flesh-searing, ego-penetrating, absolutely awful death glares, and be prepared to use them the instant you spot an excessively muscled but decidedly clueless neanderthal making his approach.
The situation: It’s cold, it’s dark, and rain is pouring from the sky. I shove open the door from the gym’s lobby, stumble unceremoniously outside, and begin to slowly drag my exhausted, spandex-clad butt across the parking lot to my car, which is obviously parked just about as far away from the door as it’s possible to get. Suddenly, through of a curtain of rain, a car is screeching to a halt directly in front of me. Only it’s not just a car; it’s a minivan in the most nauseating shade of teal imaginable, packed with kids in full hockey gear, and helmed by a haggard-looking mother – a mother who is probably clinging onto her last remaining shred of sanity as her kids jab at each other with their hockey sticks and is therefore most certainly not paying full attention to any over-tired gym-goers who might be in her way. It’s a close call of the worst kind: Could there be anything worse than spending an uncomfortable amount of time pounding away on the treadmill only to be struck down seconds after emerging from the gym?
The lesson: If the exercise equipment doesn’t kill you, the parking lot just might. This might be a good place to start wearing that bright pink jacket you mistakenly bought last year – you know, the one that looked “cute” in the change room but now makes you feel like you could very well be visible all the way from outer space. Because if they can see you from space, you just might be visible enough to make it through the parking lot alive.
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