Treadmill time machine

I recently moved to a new apartment complex. For the most part, it’s pretty modern. We have high-speed Internet, covered parking, and even a free cappuccino machine in the main office.

But the first time I walked into the fitness center, it was immediately apparent that the majority of the landlord’s budgetary surplus was going toward complimentary espresso drinks. The purchase of updated exercise equipment clearly has been on the backburner ever since Americans stopped winning the Boston Marathon.

The first day I went in there, I stopped dead in my tracks and just sort of stared at the treadmill for a while. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to use it. I mean, it looked like it belonged in a Museum of Early Running, somewhere between a Kalahari bushmen hunting spear and Bill Bowerman’s waffle iron.

In case you don’t believe me, or you think I’m exaggerating, here is some photographic evidence:

As the daughter of an avid antiquer, I know that people don’t buy antiques to use them. People buy antiques to display them.

For some reason that I have yet to figure out because I was born after the Kennedy administration, filling your shelves with old, obsolete crap like hat pins and oil lamps creates an air of sophistication in your home that new stuff simply cannot provide.

So at first, I thought maybe this treadmill was meant to be a really big, really impractical decoration. But the more I thought about it, the less likely this hypothesis seemed. If it were a decoration, it would be presented as such—with a giant glass case or a perimeter of velvet rope or, at the very least, an informational plaque.

Also, a 30-year-old treadmill does not exude sophistication. It exudes cheapness. Not that I live at the Waldorf Astoria or anything, but you’d think my landlord could at least get some cardio equipment from this century.

Once I had determined that this relic from the running days of yore—the Landice 8700—was meant for actual use, my train of thought moved on to a new conundrum: was this thing older than me?

The more I puzzled over this question, the more it escalated from innocent curiosity to urgent quandary consuming my every thought. There was no possible way I could go on with my life until I knew for certain whether I predated the Landice. (This is a side effect of my obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Another side effect of my obsessive-compulsive tendencies is my constant need to fold things that are not folded, so please excuse me for a moment while I take care of the blanket that has been left on my couch in an untidy mess of microfleece…OK, much better. Now back to the story.)

I considered the possibility that the number 8700 indicated that the machine was manufactured in the year 1987, in which case it would, indeed, be older than I am. But a logical guess wasn’t good enough—I needed corroborating evidence.

As I searched the rest of the treadmill for more date-related clues, I was struck by yet another conundrum: what if we were both “born” in the same year—1988?

Luckily, I realized that this question had an easy answer. My birthday is January 2. Therefore, to be older than I am, the treadmill’s birthday would have to be January 1. And since January 1 is a global holiday, the chances of anything being manufactured on that particular date are very slim.

Furthermore, if the treadmill had been produced on January 1, 1988, it likely would have been assembled by a bunch of hungover factory workers, in which case its structural integrity almost certainly would have been compromised, and the probability of it surviving 20-plus years in workable condition would have been very, very low.

Anyway, after inspecting every square inch of the Landice, I found no further evidence of a manufacture year. So, like any good detective, I considered my context clues.

The treadmill is surrounded by fitness posters that obviously were inspired by the music video for Olivia Newton-John’s “Physical.” I could ridicule them at length, but really, the photos say it all:

The copyright date on the posters: 1986. Aha! I thought. Now we’re getting somewhere. I felt like I was smack dab in the middle of a classic mystery novel. (Nancy Drew #61: The Secret of the Old, Decrepit Treadmill)

Like Nancy, I am very observant—which is why I noticed that there is something not quite right about those ’80s fitness posters. In fact, they are downright creepy. Here, take a closer look at these shots and see if you notice it too:

I hope I’m not the only one who is bothered by the fact that THIS PERSON HAS NO FACE UNLESS SHE IS PICTURED FROM A SIDE PROFILE PERSPECTIVE, AND EVEN THEN SHE DOES NOT APPEAR TO HAVE OCULAR CAVITIES!

Now this was beyond bizarre, and it was more than I could take. I had to get out of there. Maybe if I ran fast enough, my dreams wouldn’t be haunted by faceless aerobics instructors in Reebok high-tops.

Alas, I never cracked the case. Although it is difficult for me to accept the treadmill's symbolic victory over my wit and skills as an investigator, I have grown to appreciate the air of mystery surrounding the true age of the Landice 8700. It’s like Joan Rivers, but with less plastic. 

Spy Mall

Wishing you had invented something is one thing. I don’t know how many times I’ve kicked myself for failing to invent the Snuggie—I mean, it’s really just an oversized backwards robe. Genius!

But actually inventing something and then watching in horror as some other schmuck totally hijacks your idea—that’s a whole different animal. It pains me to admit that I have not once, but twice been the victim of such intellectual thievery.

It all started a few summers ago when we took a family shopping trip to Spokane. My mom insisted that we stay downtown, so we booked a hotel room in the heart of the city. The problem was, we had brought the family dog along (because she was much too needy and spoiled to spend three days in a boarding kennel) and the nearest grass was several blocks away.

Of course, my dad and I were charged with the responsibility of escorting the dog to said grass multiple times a day. After our fifth or sixth trip, we decided there had to be a better solution to our predicament.

Me: Seriously, I can’t believe we have to walk half a mile just to get to a stupid four foot by four foot patch of grass.

Dad: I know. I’m considering ripping up that piece of sod and carrying it back to the room.

Me: Hmmmm. That’s actually a pretty good idea. Maybe we should invent something like that.

Dad: I doubt very many people with dogs stay at overpriced downtown hotels.

That was the extent of our conversation. The idea always stayed in the back of my mind, but I never acted on it. Big mistake.

A few years later, I was flying to California for a race when I came across the following ad in Sky Mall:

I almost spewed my tomato juice all over the page. Someone who had more business sense and initiative than I did had taken my idea (MY idea!) and turned it into a wildly successful enterprise. How dare they!

I promised myself that I would never again ignore my entrepreneurial instincts. Clearly, I had a gift, and I needed to sit back and allow my mind to develop its next million-dollar idea.

A few years later, I was training for cross country season when I came down with a serious case of plantar fasciitis. I was confined to the elliptical machine for six weeks—during the summer. For a runner who lives in a state where summer lasts three months and winter takes up the remaining nine, indoor workouts throughout July and August were a veritable form of torture.

Day after day, I powered through the monotony that is the elliptical. My mind grew numb. The summer sun taunted me through the window. I imagined being outside, felt the warm breeze against my face as I glided down the street. Then, like a shoe to Dubya’s head, it hit me.

There had to be a way to adapt the technology of the elliptical machine to a road-friendly piece of exercise equipment. I mean, there are stationary bikes and mobile bikes, right?

As the wheels started turning (no pun intended) I realized that this could be the beginning of the next fitness empire. Forget Suzanne Somers and Chuck Norris—that is, of course, unless they wanted to sign on as official spokespeople for the GliderRider. That’s right, I even named it.

There was no way I was going to let this one slip through the cracks like that stupid dog toilet idea. I couldn’t wait to get started. All I needed was a large financial investment, a mechanical engineer, and a TV spot on HSN.

Well, I got kind of hung up on the investment part, which made the engineer part pretty much impossible. The whole operation was stalled by mid-August. Then my foot healed up, which meant I was spending considerably less time on the elliptical at the gym.

Just when my big plan had been pushed passed the backburner and almost completely off of the stove, I browsed another issue of Sky Mall during a recent flight to New Jersey to visit my boyfriend’s family. As if a trip to New Jersey weren’t enough to ruin my day, imagine the outrage I felt when I turned the page and saw this:

My eyes bulged in disbelief. Once again, I had failed to follow through on a brilliant invention that undoubtedly would have brought me immense fame and fortune.

I cast my eyes downward in shame. I didn’t want to admit that I couldn’t be trusted with my own genius, but deep down I knew it was true.

I’m happy to report that with the loving support of friends and family, I was able to move past this dark time in my life. I’ve got my next big idea on the stove, and this time I’ve decided to seek out help to ensure that it’s brought to a full boil. More to come in my next post.