Treadmill incident left scars, scars which still today can be seen. Like every other incident in my life, this brief story starts with good intentions.
Our company did the Comrades race (56 miles/96 km) on a treadmill with teams of ten each running the distance. Our great strategy was to run as fast as possible, not stopping the treadmill when exchanging runners. The plan being that we would slow down the treadmill to a comfortable pace the next runner could handle. Soon it was my turn. In the excitement, I missed most of the instructions on when and how to jump on. In my enthusiasm to get onto the damned demon machine, I didn’t check that it had not been dropped to a reasonable setting under light speed. Also in being the great sportsman, I did the logical thing of taking one step onto the treadmill instead of lifting myself up with both feet planted. I staggered a couple of times before taking a dive. I held onto either side of the hand rails while my legs were scraped, losing most of the skin on my shins and knees. My thinking was that it would either be my legs or my face. My team mates deciding that maybe we would lose too much time in stopping the treadmill, decided to let it go and rather try and pull me off.
I went back to the office were everyone had found out about the incident and somehow had gotten pictures and circulated them around the office. Someone asked me why I had put so much Mercurochrome on the wounds. I hadn’t, it was blood.