jakorte's blog

Saturday night: 8:00 pm. I finally decided to stop working on my weekend project and grudgingly get my treadmill time in. I put on that lovely form-fitting outfit reserved only for working out, and thought… hmm. If I can see my neighbors' silhouettes through their blinds, then they could probably see mine just as easily.

Vanity told me that no one needed to see my version of a jello-wiggle commercial on a beautiful Saturday eve, so I decided to treadmill in the near-dark. The hall light was on, but it did not cast its glow over the treadmill in the corner. Perfect. I jumped up on the treadmill, and hit start. Nothing happened. I hit start again, and again, and again. Finally, I tried to re-figure where the start button was. Bingo! I found it, and the machine started rolling along.

Within seconds, I realized something was terribly wrong. My normally rather tame torture machine was whining like a freight truck's engine, and my feet were literally flying out from under me. Holding on to the grab bars, I assessed my situation, thinking, "If I don't find a way to get off of this thing, it's likely to slam me full force into the recliner two feet behind me."

At this point, as appealing as ending up in that lazy chair was, I was pretty sure I was going to have to break an arm or a leg to get there. I sometimes have a keen way of missing the obvious. This trait completely boggled and amused my husband. I thought of Jeff and received a loving virtual smack from the other side. Through his imagined laughter I heard the word: "Jump!" Well, duh!

I transferred my left hand death grip to the right hand bar, and jumped. By now, the machine was sounding like it might explode. I scrambled for the stop button as soon as I was sure that my sneakers were still attached to my feet, and my feet were still attached to my legs. I was, triumphantly, still standing!

Apparently, I had been hitting the speed increase button instead of the Start button. My normal 1.6 to 1.8 rate was gone, and I had cranked up the programming to a rate of 8.5! No, I wasn't wearing the emergency stop button clip thingy that is supposed to jerk itself from the machine should your body even hint that you might fly backwards off it, thereby cutting off the power and saving your stupid vain self from smashing into chairs or furniture or what have you.

Words to the Wise:
1. Treadmill in the daylight or in an un-windowed basement.
2. Wear the emergency clip.

jak