Dear Treadmill

Dear Treadmill,

I hope this letter jogs your memory; it’s me, the aspiring marathoner who’s been pounding your conveyor belt with more enthusiasm than grace.

Firstly, let me apologize for the ocean of sweat I’ve so generously anointed you with. I assure you, it’s not a ritualistic offering but a testament to my hard work and your unyielding support (quite literally).

Now, I know we’ve had our ups and downs—mostly ups, as I keep hitting that incline button by mistake. And I can’t forget the times I’ve stared at your display, pleading for the numbers to go up faster, as if my willpower could speed up time.

But you've been there for me, steadfast and uncomplaining through all the huffing, puffing, and occasional cursing (sorry about that). Well, except for that one squeak, but we don’t talk about that, do we?

Here’s the thing, dear Treadmill: Despite the struggles, the endless loops to nowhere, and the suspicious glances from my pet, who can’t fathom why I run yet remain in the same spot, I have dreams. Dreams of crossing finish lines, of wind in my hair, of actually running in a straight line without the fear of tripping over my own feet.

So, let’s make a pact, shall we? I’ll keep showing up, sneakers laced and determination unwavering if you promise to keep those belts rolling and those calories burning. Together, we’ll chase the horizon, one step at a time.

Yours in speed (and occasional slow-motion), Lizette

P.S. If you could avoid randomly changing speeds, that would be great. My heart can only take so much excitement.