I can see the appeal of the treadmill. For only the third or fourth time ever, I bounced along on one this evening for 40 minutes or so. It makes the chore easier. It gives you control over your environment. You set the speed, the incline, the time, while you gaze blankly at Eastenders with the sound turned down. A teaspoonful of imagination is all you need. "Pack it in, will yer… Leave it aht, Mate… oy, donchoo tork to me like vat…".
Television is one of the few addictions I’ve never bothered learning to enjoy, but I’m sure the routine and the predictability must be comforting. Just like the treadmill. Setting the speed, the incline, the time once again. Which world do you want to live in this evening? In one of my sneerier moments in the gym this evening I decided that using a treadmill was a bit like watching Big Brother. A substitute for the real thing. Passive. The choice of those who shrink from reality (and this despite Big Brother being called "reality TV". Was there ever a bigger misnomer than this?)
Sneery, as I admitted. But there is something slightly tragic about the idea of habitual treadmilling. Where are those fluffy ducklings? Where was the salty tang on the breeze? I even missed the impressive grumbling of the invisible juggernauts in the sky.
I thawed out a little as my 40 minutes of sand trickled away. Runners need variety, and the occasional treadmill trip can only help, I decided. And as I said, it’s easier.
