The treadmill stands in my living room, no matter what. So far, it’s moved three times with me. First thing I do when I wake up, first thing I do when I get home, and the last thing I do before going to bed is run. Run, stretch, run, stretch. It’s the only way I feel fully comfortable in my body anymore.
My first roommate complained about having this huge piece of exercise equipment in our shared space (the only place large enough to keep it). She would watch me in the mornings, coffee in hand, as I did my first “couch to 5K” training. She didn’t make one comment, which I appreciated. If nothing else, she at least understood why I ran. The only time she questioned me was when she suggested I get a therapist.
“Do you think you’ll ever be fast enough to outrun yourself?”
I upped my pace.
A couple years later, I bought my first home and planted the treadmill in the living room again. The center of the house. Boyfriend after girlfriend were confused why I had it in the middle of everything. They were less understanding than my roommate because they weren’t around when I was assaulted. They didn’t understand the same way she had. They thought I was just a hot, skinny chick who wanted to remain a hot, skinny chick.
They hadn’t known me as a slow, out-of-shape young woman who couldn’t run. People only know pieces of us for slices of finite time and think they can grasp the whole. By then I was up to four miles a day and was starting to toy with the idea of triathlon training. So I knew bits of them for a while, and they knew bits of me, and my treadmill remained standing behind my couch.
When I receive my latest promotion, I sell that house and move to a townhouse in a city far away from the bits and pieces of people I know. The movers drop the treadmill going up the front steps. A crack appears in the dashboard console. I scream the way I had wanted to scream that night but hadn’t. The moving supervisor talks me down, explaining it still worked. There was just a crack. It’s a little broken, but still works—the metaphor is not lost on me. He reassures me the company will pay for damage repair.
My first night in my new home, I stand on the deck of the treadmill, staring at the crack—it really is very slight. I remember the man in the purple shirt placing his hand on my car door, keeping me from opening getting in. I saw my reflection that night thirteen years ago the way I see my reflection in the treadmill console right now. He puts his other hand on my upper arm. I manage to jerk away, but I can’t use my car. I only have my feet. I run. I hear his footsteps behind me and I’m crying and I’m trying to go faster but I can’t catch my breath and there’s a stitch in my side and it hurts and my legs are burning and I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t breathe the stitch is so bad. I slow down and the tears are stinging and I can’t scream because I can’t breathe. He catches me by my hair.
I hit the on button and crank the speed to 4.5.
I strike my rhythm and leave him behind for the 4,748th eighth day in a row.
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