Sweat from the Locker Room Floor

Rule #1: You can't race on a treadmill.

When I get on a treadmill in the morning I purposely seek out the one that is far removed from the pack. You know what I mean, there's a treadmill in a corner or off to the side where the spandex clad, or wind-short wearing, waifs and gaunts haven't yet populated with their swift running spidery legs. That's where I go to start plotting my 15-20 minute session of fat jiggling. I like being far removed so it's harder for any of those stick figures to notice that my treadmill rocks with every pounding step I take or that my hand towel is soaked after 5 minutes of slather.

So, it was with disdain that I noticed one of the spider people hop on a treadmill right next to me out of the sea of treadmills available between me and the pack. She swiftly begins this speed walking jaunt that matches if not passes the speed I'm currently jogging. I think about dialing up the speed. I can't let the spider lady walk faster than I'm running. About a minute later, apparently her warm up is over. She dials up to twice my speed and is practically sprinting on this treadmill.

The flab of my arms are slipping on the sweat of my chest as I realize, "There's no point." I can't beat her and if I try I'll re-enact a scene out of Mr. Woodchuck sending my whole jauncing heaping mass off the treadmill to land in a pile of fat and broken bones. I dial down. I may sway this treadmill and cause the springs to creak under my massive weight, but I'll be damned if I end my work out on the floor as a blubbering idiot.

You can't race on a treadmill.