Things I Imagine While Running

When I was little I was in Cub Scouts, along with various other youth programs all designed to stop you from becoming the kind of adult that I became anyway. The motto of the Cub Scouts, which they drilled into our heads during my short time there is Be Prepared. You might have already known that. It was a motto that I took to heart and one that I still believe in today. Part of being prepared is imagining all of the worst case scenarios that could come your way and figuring out how you’ll deal with them. I employ this technique when I’m running.

For example, I often find myself out running when it’s dark. This is when there are unsavory characters lurking around every corner to get you so it is especially important to be prepared. Each cyclist that you pass could be a terrorist in disguise, sent to take you captive. That woman walking her dog could be an Al Qaeda operative whose mission is to rub you out. When I run at night I imagine that each pedestrian that I pass is a mortal enemy. I look around for reflective surfaces so that I can keep an eye on them without alerting them to my alertness. After they pass me I know that they are circling back around to attack but my Spidey senses are tingling and I feel the danger coming. As though I have eyes in the back of my head I deftly duck out of the way of their initial blow and then turn my defensive maneuver into a deadly counter attack. I spin around with lightening quickness and take the highly trained, combat-hardened terrorist completely by surprise. I execute a roundhouse kick with Chuck Norris-like perfection that catches my assailant squarely in the jaw. Stunned but not knocked out, the terrorist stumbles backwards and I immediately pounce and pummel them with brutal body blows from my steely fists. I put the terrorist in a choke hold and demand that he tell me who sent him. Seriously guys, I make Jack Bauer look like limp-wristed mama’s boy.

Later I’ll give an interview on TV where you’ll still be able to see my bloodied knuckles and sweat drenched shirt. I’ll describe in the most nonchalant fashion how I captured the most highly sought after man in the US and got critical information out of him that will save countless lives. It’s thoughts like these that keep me at a heightened state of awareness when I run, I mean sure, sometimes I almost run right into other runners because I’m so immersed in my daydreams, but for the most part I’m super aware.

Of course none of this has ever actually happened. It usually turns out that my tingling Spidey sense was just indigestion and if anything like that ever did really happen I’d probably crap my pants and faint. Later that night the local news story would be about a heroic woman who revived a runner that had passed out and soiled himself for no apparent reason.

The Death Throes of a Treadmill

It was cold last night. Not so cold that I couldn’t wrap up and head out the door for a brisk evening run, but sometimes getting ready to run in the cold is just such a hassle isn’t it? Am I the only one that feels this way? I’ve got to assess exactly how cold it is outside and then determine if I just want to wear one of my UA cold gear shirts or if I’ll need something else over it? Will a vest suffice or do I need a hoodie or a light jacket with sleeves? I just don’t know. Do I want my thin running gloves or my slightly thicker ones? Which hat do I want to wear, the thinner Headsweats hat or the fun one with the tassel on the top that playfully bobs back and forth as I run? These are the important questions that a runner has to ask oneself before heading out in the elements.

It’s just so much easier, albeit more boring, to throw on a pair of shorts and a shirt and hit the treadmill, which is what I decided to do last night. I put a movie on the TV and began to slip into my treadmill coma to help me survive the boredom. But something wasn’t right. The treadmill wasn’t moving and I wasn’t running. I was just standing there watching TV.

“Something’s not right,” I thought. I checked everything again. The dashboard was lit up, the safety key was securely in place, the speed was set just above 6 mph and yet the treadmill was motionless. Blissfully motionless. Standing on the side rails I looked down at the belt and blinked a couple of times before gingerly dipping my toe onto it, half expecting my foot to jerk backwards, but the belt was not moving. Had I finally run my treadmill into submission? Was the cursed piece of machinery finally dead? I hopped off with a little extra bounce in my step, quietly singing to myself “ding dong, the witch is dead.” I was positively giddy. It is flat out wrong how excited I was to go upstairs and inform Candis that the treadmill was dead. I was already thinking about the celebratory bottle of wine I was going to drink and how I’d toast the death of my antagonist. Perhaps I would even mockingly pour some out for my fallen homey.

Then the unthinkable happened; the treadmill beeped at me. It was taunting me, calling out to me for help. I walked back over to it and turned it off and back on again as though it was running on Vista. The dashboard lit up again, just as it had before. I stood on the rails holding my breath and pressed the start button. An eternity passed as I gazed down at the belt but then slowly, almost imperceptibly, the belt began moving monotonously backwards, picking up speed with all the haste of sap oozing down a tree trunk. I let loose a tempest of curse words and I might have even hit or kicked the treadmill a couple of times.

Alas, my treadmill is not dead, and I managed a few lackluster miles on it last night with a few lackluster intervals thrown in for good measure. I suppose that’s good news as it means I don’t have to go through the agony of deciding what cold weather clothes to put on and I can run indoors, but it sure didn’t feel like good news last night when I was on the verge of skipping my run. It’s just one more reason to hate my treadmill, as if I needed any more.