I have that 1980s Journey song, you know the one, “Now it’s your turn, girl to cry. Na na na na na…” going through my head. Taunting me. It’s my turn to cry. The old gerbil cage is going bye-bye. As early as today. I didn’t think I would take it so hard. For all it’s quirks I loved this machine. And as I stand in front of it I think maybe, just maybe, it loved me. Really, honestly I wish it could talk. We spent a lot of time together. I’ve shed tears on it. Almost puked on it.
I was user 2. But only when I ran. When I walked I was user 1, stealing Kisa’s numbers and walk, I did. Miles and miles. That is, when I remembered to be a user at all. We logged 1,000 miles between user 1 and user 2′s stats. The incline button was worn through to the mesh and didn’t work all the time. The machine protested any include over 5% as it was. The custom program was broken. It wanted me to use program 8 every time it was turned on. (what’s so special about program 8?) The date was perpetually January 5th and the time, always 1:01 in the morning. No amount of resetting could set it straight. It was constantly asking for a relube of the belt. The motor squealed after an hour. I swore I heard swearing. That’s okay. I swore, too.
The cup holder! Before they came for my gerbil cage I had to call Kisa to make sure he cleaned out the cup holder. It was too shallow for the humungous water bottle I insisted on using so instead the cup holder became the place for earrings, ear buds, hair ties, lint, rings, old gum. Anything I decided to discard mid-stride. Remember the puke? That’s where it would have gone. In the cup holder. One time I insisted on running with a cold. The cup holder faithfully held my snot laden tissues until I remembered to throw them out a week later.
And the stickers! Purple Rolling Stones lips honoring a man who gave me my first heartbeat to run with, a bright yellow Phish begging me to run like an antelope (or at least try), two Hike for Mikes to remind me to be humble, a Portland tattoo parlor I have yet to try. Three years of Just ‘Cause. Three years running, I mean walking. There is a story in all this – these mementos.
In the end I know all things must die. Change is good. If there is anything to be learned from this it’s respect. I respected the gerbil cage. I never ever once used it as a coat rack or a laundry basket. It didn’t gather dust. Okay, I did try to get Jones to move his 18lb heft on it once. As a joke. A cat on a treadmill – that has the potential to be hilarious, right? It didn’t last long. Honestly, it ceased to be even remotely funny when he fell off the back with a resounding thud. And yes, I admit the gerbil cage did provide brief entertainment for my five year old nephew last Thanksgiving. He has the attention span of a flee so like I said, it was brief. But really, for the most part I treated the gerbil cage with almost holy devotion.
I don’t know where treadmills go to die but I will miss my cage. Rest in peace, my friend.
