run to eat (repeat)

The gym is in the basement, and only half of the treadmills have fans.

Mid-afternoon, maybe twenty people working out and the air is rank as a trunk full of meat and cheese, car parked and groceries forgotten for days in a deep, hair-pitted stretch of humid June.

The treadmill is the only equipment I use here. Mostly because the idea of openly altering a hulking machine to fit my 5’2” frame only serves to remind me that I’m outwardly diminutive. I’d rather not have to look like a gnome trying to mold a muscle truck around me in public.

The fan on this treadmill is more of a placebo than anything else. A mind-over-matter reminder that something has been set in place to cool me down. Nevermind that my core temperature happens to be volcanic, whether it be my combative Irish and English heritage or missing both of those #1 buses as they roared by back to back or the fact that my industry is dying.

In any event. The fan speeds are “High” and “Low.” “Low” is like a dozing baby kicking in its sleep and rasping intermittent fits of breath. I hit “High.” The propellers spin for effect, and I’m reminded of when you have that initial realization that your train is pulling in: you’re underground, it’s stifling, and then from the depths of that tunnel there’s a quenching surge of air.

At first, it’s pure relief. But then you’re pressed to wonder where it’s been circulating. How much of that is rat’s breath? Am I breathing in pure chemicals from the middle partition’s asbestos? How much of this air just roots around, scraping along the tracks, the discarded Dunkin' Donuts cups and condoms and rat shats, wafting up to my freckled, open nostrils?

The treadmill vibrates. I plug in my headphones. Tune in to Channel 77: Bon Jovi, “Who Says You Can’t Go Home.” It’s alright It’s alright It’s alright It’s alright. Absolutely not. Channel 79: The Seven Things I Hate About YOU! Stick to partyin’ in the USA, Miley. At least that makes me want to dance when I’m shitfaced.

I finally hit my stride on Channel 85, “Alternative Hits,” where the volume shunts from merely tickling to outright booming and songs are interrupted with don’tcha-do-that gym commercials reminding me to wipe down equipment, to not ellipse over 30 minutes if someone is waiting in line.

Why do I come here? Yes, it’s convenient. And the stiff, itchy, non-absorbent towels can only prove that a heavy-duty cleaning system is in place despite my overriding concerns about the stagnant meat locker stench.

But still. There’s a whole city of roadway out there. And the impulse to run—outside, up hills, over bridges—is the steadiest aide I have amidst the This Is How We Move On From Here confusion, the I Need Time to Incubate meditation, the I Want to Eat a Steak Sandwich With a Dry Manhattan and Heaping Side O' Onion Strings happy hour option.

Running on a treadmill, I’m the rat. I’m sniffing through the fumes for my favorite music video—maybe that will get me running faster.

When what I really need is to do is get out of here.

The esplanade awaits.