Back Row Cycling Musings

by Keisha G. Poiro

             It’s Simon’s fault I’m hiding in the back row.
             Simon is our very strict, very blond, spinning instructor. He’s a crew-cut cycling automaton. Every now and again, when our suffering excites him, he pops tiny wood in his tiny shorts. He’s also a heart-rate monitor Nazi. Guess who forgot her heart monitor this morning?

             Our class is packed with six-figure senior executives and bored housewives, but our back row is the ninth circle of indoor cycling hell- complete with sinister smells, fitness weirdoes and the worst bikes in creation. Sticky bikes with missing foot straps and wobbling seats. And did I mention the weirdoes? John is weirdo number one. He’s one hundred and five (in years and in pounds). As frightening as he is to watch, I’m inspired by his drive for fitness excellence and fascinated by his endless supply of natty headbands.

            Damn it! John is way too close. Not that he stinks, mind you. He just sweats. A lot. Plus he’s unsettlingly old. I’m constantly afraid he’ll be at a hand position two jog and start projectile molting. It’s beyond disgusting and vomit-worthy, but I musn’t vomit because that would be rude. So, at the very least, I’d get woozy. And on a rickety, sweat-slick bike with no foot straps, woozy is not an option.

             Oh, here comes weirdo number two. This woman has recently received the indwelling of Lance Armstrong. Here she comes in her skinsuit by Carnal with performance gloves, performance water and performance yellow, rubber bracelet. It’s the same thing every day: she perches on the bike and runs through a series of too-quick-to-be-effective, but highly entertaining, stretches. When the music starts, she’s a fiend. Muttering to herself, sweating profusely. I get a kick out of watching her in the zone. She and her magnetic biking shoes. Oh yeah. Magnets. I’d make fun of her, but those imaginary hills can get pretty scary. One false move and it’s imaginary curtains for you.

             Patrick, on the other hand, is no weirdo. He is perfection and the sole reason I put up with cycling crotch ache. Patrick’s not his real name, but he reminds me of “Patrick” from “Manchild”: aged to perfection, browned evenly on all sides and takes everything he does way too seriously. He smells like Neiman Marcus. His mustache is perfectly shaped and each salt and pepper spec in his cropped hair is perfectly placed. And let’s not forget the outfit. Top to toe, Patrick sports Nike gear as if he were a sponsored athlete. Patrick is also a Saturday morning Step Funk regular, as am I.

             Class has begun and we’re at a jog. Hand position two. A snazzy George Michael remix keeps the rhythm and John keeps his fluids to himself. I swear Magnetic Armstrong is reciting Hail Mary’s on the backbeat. Patrick’s face is a mask of intensity. A thin line of sweat forms on his mustache. He leans forward. His forearms bulge. At position three and we’re cresting the hill. In my endorphin-induced delirium, I find myself falling madly, inexplicably in love with Patrick. I imagine us in the Mediterranean toasting native wines on the deck of his yacht. Docking in Sardinia, our days are choc-a-block with frivolity like skinny dipping and picnics. We roam the rocky shores wearing flowing linen outfits and obnoxious Great Gatsby hats.

             Alas, there are to be no hats and no Sardinia because Simon stands over me, glaring at my bare wrist and pursing his already-thin lips.

             “Wo ist your monitor?”
             “On my kitchen counter.”
             His eyes stare accusingly at my Rubenesque thighs. “Beside your Oreo cookies, perhaps?”
             Before I can answer, he and his shorts kick-step on to harass John.

             A downbeat Peter Gabriel cool down, a couple of hamstring stretches and it’s over. I’ve survived another morning without the old man sloughing off on me and, as I watch Magnetic Armstrong gather up her thousands of dollars worth of equipment and disappear around the corner, it’s just me and Patrick.

             I desperately want to say something, but what’s left to say to the man with whom you’d just spent the last twenty minutes picnicking in Sardinia and yachting across the Mediterranean? Nice glutes?

I yank at my handlebars, unsuccessfully trying to dismantle my bike.

             Patrick lifts his eyes to mine.
             My uterus spontaneously contracts and I hope to God there are no sweat crescents under my boobs.
             Silently, he pulls my handlebars free and leaves.

             I’ve no choice but to watch him go. Simon scowls as I make my way to the door, but I don’t care. Tomorrow is Saturday. Saturday means Step Funk Aerobics. Step Funk means Patrick.

             I am so there.

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~ This piece was posted on Monday, June 18th, 2007 and was filed under Writing, Short Story. You can make comments on it below. ~