If you’ve ever been in a gym—one of those workout mecca places half-filled with cardio machines—you’ve seen the step mill. It’s not a pretty machine. It’s not sleek and inviting like any of the new, high-tech elliptical machines that can take your pulse and make a cappuccino at the same time. The stair mill looks painful. And lonely. Every other machine is occupied with a waiting list covering the next hour and a half of workout time, but over in the corner sits the StairMaster®. Look again. That’s right. There are two. The size and bulk of one machine hides its companion like buffalo roaming the plain. They protect their mate—the giant lovebirds of the cardio world. Those two massive machines will sit there alone, only each other for company.

I’ve never understood them. “Oh, wow. I’m walking up stairs to nowhere.” My knees and I have an agreement about stairs. We don’t like them even when they lead somewhere nice. I have the same feeling about treadmills, stationary bikes and ellipticals. They’re boring. Plus, I always get that Talking Heads song repeating in my head. We’re on a road to nowhere. Come on inside. Takin’ that ride to nowhere. We’ll take that ride. But the stair climber thing called to me. It begged for a companion, for just one person to drape a sweaty towel over its frame. I guess my new knee braces bolstered me, because I answered the call.

Just one note, there is a time limit during peak hours at the gym of thirty minutes for every cardio machine—except the stair mill. “Why?” you ask, because there doesn’t need to be one. Anyone that survives for thirty minutes deserves a medal of valor. They should get something to recognize their pain and suffering. They deserve a medal and an immediate infusion of fluids.

In a few years, when I forget the experience, remind me to never try it again. I swear the behemoth tried to kill me. My thighs fell off somewhere around what it said was the “fifteenth floor.” It didn’t feel like fifteen floors in a normal building. It felt like had climbed to the top of the Space Needle™. I couldn’t take the pain anymore, and I won’t mention my derriere. There is no description for such an ache. And here’s my question, why? What sort of sadomasochistic SOB are you that that is your machine of choice? A perfectly shaped rear end and thighs of steel are not worth this kind of suffering.

There is one positive thing I learned during my adventure on the stair mill to hell. I now know that if the elevator is ever broken, I could make it to my meeting. I’d be hot and sweaty, out of breath, but I’d be there all thanks to the StairMaster®. Of course, now I have a completely different Talking Heads song beating a path through my brain cells. Psycho killer. Qu’est-ce que c’est? Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far far better. Run, run, run, run, run, run, run away.