how the Dreadmill got it's name

As many stories start..... "There I was......"
in the early 90's I was single, and lived in a pretty cool studio apartment in Burlington, VT that was a corner unit in an old, converted hotel. It had 16 foot, pressed-tin covered ceilings, and the windows started about 18 inches off the floor and were 8 feet tall. My unit looked out over main street and Lake Champlain. Directly below me was a bagel bakery. My pad was always about 85 degrees or warmer (the floors were always toasty!), but often smelled of garlic. Can you see part of the reason why I was single?
So one day I decided to join the local YMCA to try to get into shape for the coming spring. I have always prefered to work out with my own music, and not some over-hyped Top-40's station blasting in the back ground or morning talk show hosts who laugh a bit too enthusiastically at their own lame jokes. I just can't stomach it. This particular day was a nice one, I recall, and I brough along my Walkman (or some k-mart version) to keep me company on the treadmill. There were 4 mills, set up in 2 groups of 2, in front of a big mirror. When I got there, two 'hotties' were running on the ones in the back row, so I had to run in front of them. Do you see where this is headed? I wish I had.
About ohhh, i dunno, 5 to 10 minutes some time into the run (does it REALLY matter?) I had this incredible need to see if i could run with my eyes closed. I mean, seriously, how hard COULD it be? No obstacles. Thunk, Thunk, Thunk. steady pace. no dogs to dodge, curbs to hop, ice to skate over....so why not?
Let me tell you why not. Two words: YARD SALE. you know, as in your stuff spread all over for the world to see.
yea. in less time than it took Gary Coleman to say, "Whatchu talkin' 'bout, Willis?", I was flung off the back of that Dreadmill and into the middle of the floor. But not before bouncing off of the belt. Probably more than once. While trying to blend into the carpet, I heard the raucous laughter that can only be produced by two Hotties who have just witnessed a dork get spit off the treadmill. Know what I mean? No? Am I the only one? Dammit.
I got up, gathered my broken player, cassette (which i am sure the Hotties at this point thought was Bananarama or something), headphones, and shattered ego (which was in a ba-jillion pieces), and walked out. I can't even remember if I turned the Dreadmill off or not. It can run forever, for all i care. That's how i roll (off).
There you have it. The story of how i came to name the Dreadmill. To this day, I am still weary of being shot off the flippin thing. At our gym here in the hospital, the wall is right behind the machine, so i wouldn't get shot far. I would just get ground to little bits as the Rubber Band of Death had me pinned like a gigantic belt sander. Bob Villa would not be happy.