This evening I decided it was finally time to reunite with my long‑lost treadmill. And by “reunite,” I mean literally dust it off like an archaeologist uncovering a forgotten relic. Once I’d removed the layer of guilt—sorry, dust—I hopped on, determined to get some miles in.
Clifton immediately appointed himself my personal coach. He trotted alongside me with the confidence of someone who has definitely never used a treadmill but feels spiritually qualified to supervise. Bob, however, was not impressed. Indoor walking on the spot? Absolutely not. He voiced his objections loudly and repeatedly, earning himself a first‑class ticket straight to the doghouse. Zero regrets on his part.
Despite the chaos, 4 miles were officially conquered. Afterwards, Suzie and I treated ourselves to a well‑deserved pamper session, complete with a foot spa. Because if these feet are expected to carry me through many more miles, the least I can do is give them a bubbly soak and a moment to recover from the shock of being put to work.
All in all, a productive evening: treadmill revived, miles logged, dogs judged me, and my feet now feel like they’ve been on holiday.
