Running from climate change: it’s a marathon, and a sprint

"Running treadmill" is marked with CC0 1.0.

I dream of running.

I start off slowly, at a comfortable jog. The treadmill’s tread belt encourages my body’s movement, whispering momentum into my legs. I notice the lack of control buttons, but see a screen in the middle. It’s off for the moment, but that’s fine, there’s no need for me to change the speed—I’m just warming up.

My feet hit the tread belt in a steady rhythm; my hair swishes side to side across my back in a similar beat. I feel good, strong. My lungs are full of air, and my legs are just now approaching that warm feeling they get when I exercise—a sort of happiness, flowing through my quad muscles, thanking me for the movement.

At some point, not too much later, I realize my pace has quickened. Which is odd, because I didn’t touch a control panel, and the screen in the center is still off. But I’m warm now, and feeling like I could run a while yet, so I shake off the feeling, convincing myself that I must be imagining it. I tap the screen, expecting it to respond to my touch, but nothing happens. Maybe there’s a switch somewhere that turns it on? But the rest of the machine is bare, sleek. I tap it again—nothing.

My legs start burning a little, I’m definitely going faster now. But I can’t be, I haven’t changed any settings. It’s like the treadmill is on a pre-programmed circuit, set to increase the speed in intervals. Or like an invisible hand is working beyond my field of vision, slowly turning up the heat as my energy depletes.

Now I’m close to a sprint, and my legs are screaming. Sweat has pricked my back, and I can feel my shirt starting to stick to my skin. I reach for my water bottle, ready to take a sip, only to realize it’s nearly empty—Great, just what I needed, I think. I take a quick sip, but I’m careful not to finish it—I always keep a little at the bottom, in case of emergencies.

I can’t figure out how to change the speed, but I can’t waste energy on it now—it’s all I can do to keep up with the speed of the belt. My feet pound the belt, the soles of my shoes barely providing any cushion. I’m starting to feel overwhelmed, a little lightheaded. Okay, I’ll just step off for a second. But I can’t—it’s like I’m trapped in an invisible box, with walls on either side of me, just beyond the treadmill’s reach.

I’m starting to get worried, my energy is draining quickly. But I’m an athlete, I’ve trained for this. I focus on my breathing: in, out, in out, steadily filling my lungs with the oxygen they so desperately call for. Something clearly isn’t right, but I don’t have the energy to focus on that now—I have to keep my legs moving.

I’ve always loved running on the treadmill—the belt’s continuous motion is just what tired legs need: a small push to keep going, especially when I might otherwise slow down. It keeps me at pace, pushing me to go a little longer before succumbing to the stiffness creeping into my body. The default is to keep going, and I’ve always seen it as helpful.

In this moment, though, I want nothing more than to be able to slow down. I’m running on fumes, my speed is unsustainable. The ounce of water at the bottom of my water bottle mocks me—as if a few drops would be enough to quench my throat’s burning thirst. I take a deep breath—or at least, the deepest I can muster. Breathing in, out, in, out; putting one foot in front of the other; and the feeling of damp hair hitting my back, swinging left, right, left right like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. My eyes burn from the sweat, and my body pleads for reprieve.

I hear people laughing, upstairs? No. Somehow, inexplicably, it’s coming from the screen. I must be hallucinating, but no, it’s getting louder and more clear by the moment. Anger blossoms in my chest—who are they, to be languidly enjoying this moment while I barely keep myself alive? Any misstep or corporeal malfunction, and I’d be flung into the wall behind me. I’m sprinting now, barely keeping up with the treadmill’s demands, and all I can think is that this is some sort of sick joke. Nowhere to go, nothing I can do to make it stop, and that goddamn laughter echoing louder and louder in my head.

I wake with a start, only to realize it wasn’t a dream.

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