Traction

I stare at the hardened molded plastic and metal glad I cannot see the wires inside that make the treadmill smarter than me. Its lights recognize me and encourage me to step onto the deck and take the belt for a spin. It can’t talk, but if it could it would want to know what the hell happened to my visits.

“Thought the couch kidnapped you.”

“You look thicker and sad.”

The treadmill would be right on all accounts and more. I haven’t been to the gym since my daughter was born. She is three. 

I haven’t been to the gym since his affair. Found her panties in his pocket. 

I haven’t been to the gym since the divorce. I pressed so hard signing those papers that I should be credited with some form of arm exercise. I may have left an impression on the kitchen counter from the exactness and tension of my capital “J.” 

I had to show up today for my daughter and for myself. I had to take a step forward. I have paid the monthly membership fees every month since her birth. I hope the gym appreciates my donations. The treadmill looks like it has been well kept.

It’s easier to start something new when the year flips. I join the millions of others trying to fulfill their resolutions by starting anew on day one.

Anna didn’t fuss about the daycare. Anna saw a friend in the room attendant’s eyes when she offered her a Belle doll dressed ready for the ball. She ran in without turning back. This scared me and delighted me. My constant needed a break too.

I adjust my running partner’s starting speed and incline, straddling the moving belt. Maybe because they are new, my Nikes do not grip the rubber as well as I thought and I nearly fly backwards. It’s easier to blame the rubber soles than my out of shape body.

I woke up this morning knowing I needed an accomplishment to kick off my year. He was waking up with his new wife. Until three months ago, I had used my loss and disappointment as my excuse for not. Not exercising. Not going out with friends. Not living unless the word not preceded the activity.

I walk rather than run at first. I know I won’t reach my goal if I only walk for the next hour. Five miles in one hour. I used to run six on the treadmill. I adjusted for my inactivity and probable lack of motivation. My lowered goal means I have to achieve it.

I increase the speed and start on a steady pace. I do the math in my head. The trudge will still not allow me to cross my imaginary finish line, but I have always been a strong closer. I wiggle negativity out of my head and focus on maintaining a rhythm, hoping my energy reserves and missing desire join me on the stationary journey.

I look at the others around me and wonder about their stories. The regulars’ stories don’t interest me much. They are the ones in coordinated workout wear who dart around the gym with calculated precision knowing which exercise comes next in their personal circuit. 

Those like me meander to and from equipment until they find the one that fits them best at the moment. They push themselves so hard their faces flush red and their breaths are two minutes further ahead in the workout than the timer.  A lot of us choose today to seek the love of bodily pain and progress.

I click the dial up two and feel nothing so I take the speed higher. My legs are moving faster than my mind which scares me. My mind has been numb for so long that it feels too traumatized. I can’t quit. I focus my energy on each corner of my feet feeling the lining of my shoes and transfer my growing stability to deepen my catch of the moving carpet. At forty-five minutes, I think I can achieve my goal if I stay out of the limits of my mind. 

A woman years older than me with white hair and a worn Las Vegas zippered sweatshirt sets a steep incline on the treadmill to my right. I guess osteoporosis makes her care more about strength than speed. She looks content staring at the wall, avoiding eye contact with me or her walking buddy on the other side. She seems pleased with the success of simply moving her body, pushing to no particular goal than that she showed up today. She holds onto the walker’s console with a tight grasp. No matter her speed, if she releases, she will fall. She looks fine with these odds.

I regroup and watch my exercise measurements rise. I don’t dare rest my hands on the heart monitor because it will tell me through a pulsating flashes that my rate is too high for my dimensions. 

I fixate on the calorie burn counter which is not as high as I thought I would be. An hour of greater than a jog and less than a run should negate breakfast. The treadmill does not see this as an even exchange.

With a minute and a half remaining, I realize I am not as accurate as I thought at math problems. I will have to rev it up beyond my current capabilities to successfully see the numbers I want. Not winning is now not an option.

If I was to look in the mirror, I would look like a horror film character trying to escape evil’s grips. And so targeted on escaping that neither sight or sound impede.

Ten seconds remain. One-tenth of a mile short.

Short of finding my next. Nine seconds.

Short of not picturing him in her arms. Down to eight.

My bent arms try to keep in sync with my legs to find balance where I ought not even ask.

Short of seeing further than today’s glass of wine. I try to stretch the six ticks longer. 

Short of savoring my preschooler for all of her messes and discoveries. Dread at four.

Short of beginning the year with a triumph of willpower. Holding my breath to momentarily stop time.

I stare at my distance as the nine changes to a zero and the machine slips into cool down mode. I forget what happens when going from sprint to slow and stumble as the relay message is nearly too late to my lower extremity muscles to break.

I find a long saunter as the rubber pulls slower. I feel conquest push through my tight tissues. I raise my arms my in triumph. I high-five the noncommittal woman even though she shows no interest in receiving it. Gripping with one hand, her stamina equals the strength of both.

She pauses her stroll and turns to me.

“Were you running from something or to something?” she asks with the tenderness of an old friend who understands my saga.

I think for a moment and answer. “I am definitely running to something.”

She nods approvingly and restarts her upward climb. “Then my dear keep running all year and you will get where you want to go.”

I do want to go anywhere and everywhere. I take a swig of water and pretend it is champagne. My New Year’s Eve countdown arrives nine hours late and yet right on time.