It's squeaky. It's jerky. The linebacker on the stair climber beside me is wearing a weight vest, huffing and puffing, and sweating like a pig. And somebody stole the tv remote. It is far from ideal, but it's right downstairs and it does the trick for a mindless after work run. On really lucky days, I get to run by my lonesome, with some delightfully bad tv on the flat screen. On bad days, I get to exercise with some jerky stinky schmo that wants to watch PTI at a thousand decibels - and talk to me while I'm running.
But, thank goodness for the hotel treadmill. My two week stint in this just-off-the-interstate, backwater HIX wold be unbearable without it.
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