Alright, so you’re asking about Argos treadmills, yeah? Honestly, mate, I’ve got to be straight with you—when I think budget home gym gear, Argos isn’t usually the first name that pops into my head. But that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? It’s like that basic, no-fuss kettlebell you grab when you just want something that works without the fancy branding.
I remember helping my cousin set up a tiny home gym in his flat in Hackney last spring. Space was tighter than a Tube carriage at rush hour. He’d ordered one of those Argos treadmills—the kind that folds up against the wall. “It’s cheap and it moves,” he said. And he wasn’t wrong. We unboxed it in his lounge, carpet fibres everywhere, that distinct smell of new plastic and cardboard hanging in the air. Took us about an hour with a wonky Allen key. Not gonna lie, the motor hummed like an annoyed bee, but it did the job. He’s still using it for his rainy-day jogs, last I heard.
If you’re looking at an Argos treadmill, you’re probably not after the Peloton experience. You’re after something that gets you walking or light jogging without bankrupting you. The models I’ve seen tend to hover in that entry-level zone—think basic LCD displays showing time, distance, maybe calories, manual incline rather than electric, and a deck that’s decent enough for a steady pace but might protest at sprint intervals. They’re the definition of functional. No touchscreens, no fancy workout apps built-in, no interactive trainers shouting motivation. It’s just you, the belt, and your own willpower.
I once made the mistake, years back, of buying a real flashy second-hand treadmill online—thought I’d scored a deal. Turns out it was louder than a pub argument and shook the floorboards so much my downstairs neighbour threatened to report me to the council. The Argos ones I’ve come across? They’re generally quieter on the neighbour-annoyance scale, but you can feel the difference in the build. The handrails might have a bit more give, the console buttons feel a tad plasticky. But hey, for the price? It’s a trade-off.
What really defines them, I reckon, is the sheer practicality. They’re easy to get—pop into your local Argos or order online for click and collect. They’re straightforward to assemble (mostly). And when you’re done, they fold away. That’s the clincher for most city flats. It’s not a centrepiece; it’s a piece of equipment you stash behind the sofa. You’re not paying for a status symbol, you’re paying for a tool. And sometimes, that’s all you need.
Would I recommend one for serious marathon training? Blimey, no. But for someone who wants to move more, who needs to ditch the gym membership but doesn’t want a huge financial or spatial commitment? Absolutely. It’s like that reliable, unbranded raincoat you keep by the door—not glamorous, but it stops you getting soaked. Just manage your expectations, give the motor a break between sessions, and maybe don’t try to run a personal best on it. It’s a starter pack treadmill. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
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