I decided recently that if I ever want to achieve my dream of looking as great in an open-necked-shirt-with-sweatervest-combo as Blaine Anderson, I needed to get slightly more systematic exercise than walking to and from the train station. So, I’ve bought a treadmill. A really big, commercial-grade treadmill that’s really, really heavy.

I bought it off eBay, so we had to go collect it, and the disadvantage of buying a really, really heavy treadmill on a collection-only auction is that transporting it is a nightmare. It took four of us to get it onto my step-dad’s car.

Once we’d got it back home, we were down to two. So my step-dad, Patrick “call me Archimedes” Allen, took some wood and and some string and rigged up a slide.

Big. Ass. Treadmill. Means to get it home sold separately.
Big. Ass. Treadmill. Means to get it home sold separately.

I was deeply concerned that we were going to break the wood, the treadmill or ourselves if it slipped, but Patrick had set up a bunch of safety knots that would catch on the roof rack if it fell in a way that Patrick technically termed “uncontrolled” and I called “oh-my-god-dangerous”.

Each knot was about a foot away from the next one, so it couldn't fall far.
Each knot was about a foot away from the next one, so it couldn’t fall far.

I was skeptical, but you know what? It worked.

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In fact I hurt myself more carrying it the few metres into the house, where it now takes up half my living room.

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Mother included for scale.

And now I own a treadmill!