Why I loathe the treadmill

It’s getting colder, and I’ve been turning to the gym treadmill for my daily runs. It would make sense if these two facts were correlated, but they’re not. It may be colder, but that wouldn’t keep me from my outside long runs. Because on a treadmill, shin splints come with the territory, as does the mirrored wall that some gym genius decided would be a good idea. But seriously, I don’t care how beautiful, muscular or tan you are, no one looks great while running — especially not this girl. By about mile 5, my bangs are plastered to my forehead and my face is a shade of red that, until having to run before a mirror, I’d never seen. So, all red-faced, sweaty and sporting my lovely forehead vein that only pops out after strenuous activity, I am forced to look at the mirror and at my reflection because the only other option is looking at other people, which may be considered creepy or watching a tiny television screen playing some random episode of The Surreal Life. So, I look ahead, but as my feet are pounding the rubber conveyer, I picture myself running beneath a sky wearing its finest blue jacket and next to bushes that set yards on hot pink fire and down streets that lead to hills and valleys and past houses that look perfect in the autumn light. And I hope that one day soon they catch the jerk that stole my hobby. At 2 p.m. a few weeks ago on a Tuesday, a girl running through my neighborhood was attacked. She screamed after he grabbed her mouth and her crotch. He freaked out and ran away — a single act that has every other woman in my neighborhood running to the gym and settling for the treadmill.