So remember last night when it was Southeastern Armageddon 2011? Yknow, telephone poles dropping on cars, houses being demolished. Very scary and sad stuff. And, in the interest of playing Master of the Obvious, clearly not a good night for a run. It’s only nights like this that can make me attempt to face down my most formidable foe — The Dreaded Treadmill (or the Dreadmill, if you like being efficient with your words).
It’s been about a year since the treadmill and I last crossed paths. It was a stormy evening, much like last night, and, inspired by Ron Burgundy, I was craving a nice yog. I sized up the treadmill at my work gym. I had a brief flashback of the last time I tried hoofing it on a t-mill, and how after the first mile, out of boredom, I was tempted to put the speed up so high I’d fly off the back. “Oh come Yvonne,” I thought to myself, “Surely you’re being melodramatic. Surely you’re