Just when he thought he was out, the treadmill pulls him back in

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 15/01/2022 (1595 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

When I retired about a month before Christmas, my “friends” didn’t like the idea of me spending the rest of my life on the couch in the den consuming unhealthy snacks and watching the Great Chocolate Showdown on Food Network.

In an effort to start my retirement on a healthy note, they gave me one of the most unique gifts I have ever received — an advent calendar with 24 little cardboard compartments, inside each of which was hidden a tiny bottle of fancy whisky.

Sadly, however, the calendar came with one major catch — before they’d agree to let me sample these itsy-bitsy bottles, my “friends” insisted I submit to a three-week program wherein I would go walking with one of them (I mean a friend, not a bottle of whisky) each and every day.

Out of a sincere desire to adopt a healthier lifestyle — and with visions of exotic whisky dancing in my head — I quickly agreed to climb off the couch and fling myself into this daily fitness regimen.

Before every outing, I would typically receive a heart-felt text from one of my “friends” stating: “It’s time to get out of the bathtub and go for a walk!” Before long, I started to look forward to these treks, especially when I was able to persuade my walking companion to make an unplanned pit stop for coffee and doughnuts.

At one point, my buddy Bob, who along with being the publisher of this newspaper is one of Manitoba’s premiere long-distance runners, took me for a six-kilometre forced march through Beaudry Provincial Park, wherein I tried to persuade him to abandon me at a cosy log cabin and return for my body in the spring, but he politely refused.

The great news is that I passed this three-week walking challenge with flying colours, was rewarded with my whisky calendar, and managed to find the courage to start walking on my own.

The bad news is that, just as I started exploring the wonderful world of walking, the rug was pulled out from under me by two things that will not come as a surprise — cases of the Omicron variant began to skyrocket as the temperature plummeted to the point where stepping outside for longer than 30 seconds would cause your medically important organs to freeze solid.

Unwilling to brave the (bad word) virus or the deep freeze, I opted instead to renew my troubled relationship with an old acquaintance that lives in our basement. And by “old acquaintance” I am referring to our treadmill.

This treadmill was a gift almost 20 years ago from my dear friends Nick and Debbie, two extremely fit people who decided that of all of their friends I was the one who could reap the most benefit from developing a relationship with a workout machine that they were using as a high-tech clothes hanger.

My first workout was punctuated with screams of pain, because it took over an hour for my buddy Nick and I to get this monster down the basement stairs, a trip highlighted by me shrieking: “DEAR GOD IT CRUSHED MY HAND!” And: “GET IT OFF MY (VERY BAD WORD) FOOT!”

Just to be clear, this is not one of those pricey, high-tech Peloton treadmills that you see advertised in those incredibly annoying TV commercials that I have come to hate with every fibre of my admittedly pudgy body.

I know that you know exactly what I’m talking about. I’m talking about those ads wherein already fit people hop on Peloton fitness equipment and stare at a screen on which they are live-streaming leather-lunged, snotty fitness instructors who have consumed far too much crack cocaine and encourage them to pedal or run even faster by shrieking nonsensical remarks — “THEY CAN’T BREAK YOU!!!” — while the unfit owner sweats like a Butterball Turkey on Thanksgiving.

I refuse to deal with exercise equipment that features loudmouth instructors whose sole passion in life is yelling at the people trying to use it.

So the treadmill in my basement is of the polite, old-school variety, which means it is roughly the same size and weight as a modern battleship, but capable of inflicting far more pain.

Its motor is louder than an air conditioner in a cheap motel, and comes with precisely one high-tech feature — an “incline” button that, when pushed, simulates running up a hill by elevating the treadmill and — WHAM! — drilling my head into the ceiling tiles.

For most of our time together, I have treated this treadmill like a house guest — or a virus variant — who doesn’t realize when it’s time to leave. But lately, thanks to the deep freeze, we have been spending a lot of quality time together. Yesterday, for example, I spent roughly 45 minutes on the treadmill. Tomorrow, I’m thinking about turning it on.

Sure, it occasionally flings me into a nearby bookshelf, but the best thing about this electronic antique is that it couldn’t care less how hard I work out. Even if I’m moving slower than luggage on an airport conveyor belt, it keeps its mouth shut and refuses to body shame me.

The thing is, I don’t need overpriced exercise equipment to screech obnoxious motivational messages in my ear, because I have “friends” willing to do that for free.

dougspeirs65@gmail.com