Each time I get on the treadmill at David Barton, I think two things.  First: Oh god here we go again, another 30 minutes and I'll be free of this hamster race.  Then, after accepting the hellish fate of another few miles, my eyes start to wander around to spy on my treadmill neighbors. 
You see, there's something wholly entertaining to me about the way people run. Unless you're a professionally trained athlete, chances are your awkward gait and flailing arms make me laugh on the inside.  For example, today my front door treadmill neighbor was this big muscle monster.  He ran with such a light fairy step that I nearly tripped over myself:  this big hunk was running like a fifth grade sissy.  Further down the row, there was another meat head (though much cuter than the sissy) who looked like a puff-breasted chicken running around the coop.  Then there was the mousy little lady who kept swerving side to side as she spryly ran her miles. As I laugh at my fellow runners, I can't help trying to catch my own shape in the mirror without tripping, wondering who's laughing at me.