[While I write this a remixed and oh so Eurotrash version of the James Bond theme, played on accordion, is the base track for a French rapper. Wow.]
Running on a treadmill is one of those things that is mind-numbingly boring, but just how boring it is I forget every time. Until I get back onto it. Then I remember. Here is what my brain is usually like, during such a run.
“Ready, and…come on, belt, get up to speed. There we go.” Run, run, run.
“Why, MTV, why – why, world, that such a band as one named ‘Sugababes’ can riff on ‘I’m Too Sexy,’—not only that, but can do so and be high up in the UK Top 40? They can’t even rhyme: ‘I’m too sexy in this club, so sexy in this club, so sexy it hurrrrrrrts.’ What?! I’m ashamed of you! Go walk 500 miles! Like I’m running, right now. Except this treadmill lies to me and after twenty minutes thinks I’ve gone only a kilometer. I claim shenanigans on it.
“Ooh, two cats! Two cats chasing each other! Run, cats! Hide!” Run, run, run.
I will stop in the middle of a run and move to a different treadmill if my favorite, the third from the left, becomes free. I’ve started naming the bricks in front of it, and I count the rows and bricks across while I’m going. “One-two-three ah ha ha ha. Three bricks!” Run run – I’ve named one of the bricks “The Scream,” and if I can ever sneak a camera in you’ll see why. Tritone block coloring of a contorted mouth and outsplayed hand. I come up with different stories about why someone would make that pose. Most involve Lovecraftian tentacles from the Ancient Ones arising from the Deep. Cthulhuuuuu.
“I’m tired, I’ll go another five minutes, until around forty, and then have…wait. What? ’12:35’?! I’ve been running for so much longer than that! Shenanigans! So bored.” Run run run.
bek (phonetically. Spelled “b-e-g”) – run. (What I do.)
Ty begi! Pobystree! - Run! Faster! (What I often tell myself.)
3 weeks ago