They say the treadmill is the cornerstone of any good workout. For me, however, it was more like a medieval torture device disguised as exercise equipment. Every beep, belt whir and cheerful LED display felt like it was mocking my very existence. And yet, like a moth to a flame or a student to an all-nighter, I kept coming back for more. It became a challenge I wanted to overcome.
When I first visited the Witt Center, I was confused. I had no idea where all the designated equipment was. The first thing I laid my eyes on after taking the stairs up to the cardio section was the treadmill, and to save myself from the embarrassment of looking like a lost person at the gym, I went straight towards it. Everyone around me seemed to know exactly what they were doing.
I put on a confident face and managed to complete my first workout seemingly without any hurdles; however, the moment I stepped off the treadmill, a pain I had never felt before consumed me. My legs felt like jelly, my lungs were on fire and my heart was pounding like I had just run from a pack of wild animals. Every step back to my dorm felt like punishment for something I didn’t even know I had done.
After reaching my room, I collapsed onto my bed and swore to myself that I would never go back to the Witt again. I didn’t like how awful the workout made me feel. My body ached, I was mentally exhausted for not matching my expectations from the workout and I was pretty sure my sneakers were silently judging me. But somehow, the next morning, I found myself lacing up those same sneakers and heading right back to the gym. Maybe it was stubbornness or a misguided sense of determination, but I refused to let the treadmill win.
With every passing day, the treadmill started feeling less daunting. I began to understand its quirks, like how it seemed to anticipate my mistakes, automatically slowing down when I hit the wrong, slower-paced button as if mocking my lack of coordination. The incline feature and I had a love-hate relationship. I felt challenged because of it, but running out of breath wasn’t exactly the most fun thing, either.
I then learned to pace myself, to breathe through the discomfort and even to embrace the rhythm of my feet hitting the belt, a steady beat that became strangely comforting. Slowly, the people in the gym stopped feeling like judgmental strangers and started to feel like teammates in this unspoken battle against the machines. The Witt Center became less of a battlefield and more of a community.
The treadmill challenges me, but it has also become my friend. It’s the only machine that’s seen me at my worst and, in its own indifferent way, marked every victory by beeping with completion, flashing stats like badges of honor and letting me know I’ve gone farther, faster, stronger. It doesn’t cheer, but that’s the point. The treadmill doesn’t care if I quit or keep going, which means every time I push past my limits, I do it for me, and that’s its quiet encouragement.
The gym is a space where I’ve learned to laugh at my mistakes, like the time I accidentally hit the sprint button and nearly flew off, and where I’ve discovered that I’m capable of far more than I ever thought. Even though I was not very skilled at using treadmills in my initial days of working out, practicing and showing up at the Witt every day helped treadmills become less intimidating for me. It’s no longer my nemesis but my silent coach and friend, urging me forward one step at a time. The treadmill may have beaten me once, but we’re in this together now.
