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.