Ode to my treadmill

I knew when I saw the envelope at the bottom of my staircase that the news was not going to be good. The note was nice enough, with phrases like, "I tried to deal with the treadmill, but it shakes and vibrates my entire apartment", "I support your desire to stay in shape/lose weight, but it just doesn't work in this house." , "The sound is actually going to make me go crazy".  It wasn't out of the blue, my neighbor had never said anything, but it takes a strong dose of denial to think that running on a 200-pound treadmill in the upstairs of a house built in 1908 would work out long term.  Every time I stepped on it, I tried different walking stances to make the sound in MY upstairs part of the house less intense.  But deep down, I knew it just wasn't going to work...and the letter sealed the deal.

And there was the issue with constantly worrying that  my energy sucking treadmill would start some kind of fire in my circa 1908 ungrounded outlets.  And so, as with many of the loves in my life, my relationship with the treadmill was intense, beautiful and short on realism/long term possibility.(See Dance Dance Revolution, my bike wind trainer that threw out my back, the ab roller, the eight sets of hand weights, etc....). So, here is my ode/dear john letter to the treadmill.....sniff, sniff....

I met you on a rainy day in November. You came in a box and took several hours to put together. But you were perfect in every way. You had an Ipod dock and speakers that played any variety of music that I desired.  I could climb hills to Jay-Z and then jog it out with Emmy Lou and Roger Miller. You always loved my taste in music and never said anything when I put on a bad one-hit wonders from the late eighties(You even let me play Cococabana, Love is a Battlefield and Make Me Lose Control over and over again).

You were there when my son was sick and napping upstairs and I couldn't leave the house. I could run for an hour or two while he slept on the couch and come back to vomit duty stress free and healthy. You let me work out the, "why the heck do live in a city where it rains more than half the year blues" and allowed me the chance to train for the Seattle Marathon even when it was getting dark at four PM.

You allowed me to avoid the 100 pound girls in the tiny sports bras at the gym. You let me avoid the guys who wear awful tank tops and lift heavy weights just to impress those 100 pound girls. You gave me the courage to wear polka-dotted sweatpants and a neon green top while working out.

There were problems, of course. Occassionally, my son would walk in on us when "Big Pimpin'" or "Party Up" was blasting on the speaker system. That was just awkward and involved very quick manevuers with the volume control that I do not want to ever have to repeat. You came with an intermediate and advanced workout series with Jillian Michaels. The workouts came on SD Cards and we both know that I occassionally pulled them out and threw them on the floor mid workout (because Jillian Michaels is MEAN and her workouts are too difficult).

But those issues did not change the fact that you were, and still are a brilliant workout machine....And now it is time for me to give you to another person who will hopefully give you the love and attention you deserve.

I am moving on to a gym with a kids club where my son can hang out. I realise that I will just have to forgo workouts on days that my son is sick.  I realize I am going to have to wear normal workout clothes and god forbid, use headphones. 

But we both knew this would happen sometime...it is time to say goodbye.....it isn't you, it is me....I need my neighbors to not call the police with noise complaints....I need my son to have a fun place to play while I am working out that doesn't cause me to worry that he reaking havoc somewhere else in the house....and I need the additional things that a gym can provide that you can't (sorry dear, but there aren't any treadmill based yoga classes or weight machines.)

We will always have the basement guest room....