Certain songs make me nostalgic for a particular time or place. The first kiss song. That break-your-heart, break-up song. The crackling ember campfire song that makes me long for sleep away camp even though I hated sleep away camp. When these tunes come on the radio as I’m driving along in my SUV, I am instantly flooded with memories. Air Supply, Donna Summers, Joanie Mitchell. I know I’m lame (and old), but, as long as the windows are up, I sing along.
And then there are the Gym Anthems.
If you go to the gym a few times a week like I do, then you know what kind of tunes I’m referring to. Think top 40, heavy-bass, techno/dance music.
Gym Anthems are songs that come on the car radio and make me think of doing push ups. Of pedaling as fast as is humanly possible on a stationary bike in a Cycling class. Of counting reps as I do bicep curls with 2-pound weights in hand. Rihanna. LMFAO. Flo Rida. The strangest sensation comes over me when I hear one of these tunes outside of the walls of the gym. I’ll be driving to pick up my kids from school, and bam, on comes Rihanna’s latest and greatest, the one that sounds like this: “We fell in love in a homeless place….” and it’s like I want to start running on a treadmill at a 4% incline.
My response to Top 40 music is Pavlovian.
I’m pretty sure that’s when Rihanna imagined her album going platinum or whatever, she did not sit around with her producers fantasizing about some 40-year old suburban woman recognizing her #1 single as a cardio torture song.
I’m pretty sure that this tune was meant for rocking out at a club.*
*And, no, New York Sports Club doesn’t count.
Similarly, when Adele wrote her amazingly sad ballad “Someone Like You,” did she sit at the piano during a creative explosion and think, “I want to write the hottest cool down song of the year?” Does Adele know that every time I hear this song, I am stretching my hips after spin class and basically staring at my own crotch? DOES SHE KNOW THIS? I really feel like this is important information to share with the artist. I could use her own lyrics and everything, saying, Adele, I hate to turn up out of the blue uninvited, but I couldn’t stay away, I couldn’t fight it….
So. This phenomenon got me thinking. Since so many people will be heading back to the Stairmaster this January, with a renewed club membership and a renewed sense of purpose, I thought I’d help you find the right tunes. What would be some fun pairings of music and gym activities for the New Year, like partnering wine with cheese or wine with a glass? What will be your ultimate Gym Anthems of 2012?
Here are some teams to try.
Doing box jumps:
“Never Again” by Ja Rule
Running up and down stairs while your trainer looks on menacingly:
“Titus Andronicus” by Titus Andronicus
Getting stuck in the last row during a filled-to-capacity spin class:
“Fat Bottom Girls” by Queen
Counting sit-ups with the occasional wink-and-nod to your hot self in the mirror:
“Gold on the Ceiling” by The Black Keys
Subtly adjusting one’s package, surreptitious nose digging, picking of thwedgie (thong wedgie), or yoga farting:
“I Wanna Do It” by Sonny and the Sunsets
Running on a treadmill while watching a Zumba class through a glass partition:
“Armada Latina” by Cypress Hill, featuring Pitbull and Mark Anthony
Sizing up the competition before a group fitness class begins, such as, who brings her own yoga mat, wears the newest Lululemon tank, has the biggest pocketbook hanging off the thinnest arm….you know, basic stuff like that:
“Fly” by Nicki Minaj & Rihanna
Bouncing on an elliptical machine to a Guilty Pleasure Song that you don’t tell anyone you bought, and, when a friend walks by, you immediately change over to Coldplay on your ipod:
“Love you Like a Love Song” by (yikes) Selena Gomez
Strutting and/or Peacocking and/or bending over the water fountain provocatively:
“Can’t Touch This” by MC Hammer (men)
“Vogue” by Madonna (women)
Relaxing during a shower and a steam using bath products pocketed from a W hotel:
“5 O’Clock in the Morning” by T-Pain and Lily Allen
Waiting in line for a post-workout smoothie in your Free City hoodie:
“Pumped up Kicks” by Foster the People
Sitting on the couch after deciding not to go to the gym in order to catch up on new episodes of The Bachelor:
“This Year’s Love” by David Gray (Yes, there’s a song for that. Turns out, there’s a song for everything.)
Good luck, gym rats and couch potatoes. Let me know what you’re listening to while signing up online for your favorite spin bike, or doing tai chi, or reading Self magazine….
Showing posts with label working out. Show all posts
Showing posts with label working out. Show all posts
Monday, January 9, 2012
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Dressing for Success
“Where are you coming from?” My friend Amy asked as we chatted briefly in town. I was dripping sweat from head to toe. “Lemme guess? Spin?” She asked. I nodded, feeding more quarters into my parking meter. “I can’t do spin,” Amy said. “I don’t…”and here she tilted her head skyward, searching for the right words.
Let’s pause. For instructional purposes, I’m going to ask you to guess the end of her sentence. Remember, it began with “I don’t.” Was Amy’s predicate:
a) like sweating profusely while pop music pounds in my inner ear, or
b) enjoy riding a stationary bike to nowhere, or
c) have the right outfit.
If you guessed c, then this is the article for you.
Press play.
“Not true!” I said. “You don’t need an outfit. You just need leggings.” I inspected Amy’s legs, which were already clad in tight black lycra. “Like those! You’re good to go.”
And then I invited her to join me any time she wanted to try a class.
We waved goodbye. I watched her go, a thought bubble developing in the empty air between us.
Who was I kidding? Of course she needed an outfit.
Here’s why. A few years ago, I was struggling to complete my doctoral dissertation. It was a bitch. I had just received feedback on a round of revisions that I felt were satisfactory; my doctoral committee disagreed. I had to re-write about 100 pages of text and I didn’t know if I had the mental or physical endurance to do it. I didn’t even know if I cared anymore about finishing my degree. So I did what any self-respecting 38 year old woman would do in such a situation: I scream-cried to my mom on my cell phone about it after dropping off my children at school, with a narrative that went something like this: “I-can’t-won’t-do-this-anymore-hate-them-me-you-Brett-all-suck-getting-fat-want-to-give-up-so-mean!” I hung up on her mid-panic attack and drove around for a while.
Then I went to the gym.
I took a deep breath and entered a 9:30 stretch and strength class, grabbing some 2-pound weights. I selected a spot on the carpet that seemed like a good location based on my ability; just left of center from the middle of the square room. And then I caught a look at my reflection, and panicked all over again.
When my friend Sloan entered the class, I took one look at her and burst into fresh tears.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her sharp blue eyes showing concern. She came and sat next to me.
I told her about the failed attempt to complete my dissertation. “And,” I added, gaining momentum, “everyone in this class is wearing LONG pants and I have on these wide, weird, CROPPED ones!”
“Oh,” she said softly, her consoling eyes gazing around the room. “That’s true.”
But then Sloan gave me some wise advice: It was a problem that was easily fixed. All I had to do was to buy a nice, new pair of long, lean yoga pants. I’d feel better the next time I came to class because I’d blend in. The dissertation? She was sorry, but her advice couldn’t really help me with that.
You may be rolling your eyes at me now, thinking that I’m only going skin deep to believe – and, further, to admit in the newspaper to believing – that what I wear to a stretch class or what my friend Amy (or anyone else for that matter) wears to a spin class (or any other venue, for that matter) matters.
But it does.
We all know that old adage to “dress for success,” which has certain connotations for the business world. In our careers, we have been told to dress more like the part we want to be (boss, leader, corporate somebody) instead of the part we really are (harried mom, student, corporate nobody). Put on a power suit and feel powerful, the advice goes. Well, I would like to suggest that the same is true for gym attire.
I am not what you’d call a big fan of exercise. I lack some pretty elemental hand-eye coordination, making the catching and throwing while running portions of sports implausible. Plus, I am in no way competitive. I could seriously care less if I win or lose on the field. In fact, I used to try my hardest to be picked last for teams in gym, and then wished with all my might to be positioned somewhere on the fringe of the game or deep in the outfield.
Not every sport has an outfield in which to hide. But, they do all have uniforms. Standard outfits, some basics for what to wear while playing (or pretending to play) said game. And so, for me to feel competent and comfortable while at spinning class or in yoga, I need to dress the part. Much like a secretary who hopes someday to have the corner office, I dress for the back row of spin class like I’m someday going to be front and center.
This requires a few pairs of basic (but cute!) leggings and tanks that I can mix and match and grab and go. Having a uniform like this makes my mornings stress-free and makes me feel athletic, even though I’m totally not. In my exercise clothes, I feel like people look at me and say, “Oh, she’s so fit! Look at Julie going off to spin class again.” What they don’t know is that, sometimes, I drive right from spin to my favorite bakery.
They may notice, however, that I do not wear the newest, latest, couture fashion tank, nor do I wear bright leggings or clothing studded with bling. This kind of adorable hipness I reserve for the true athletes. They’ve earned it, what with their triceps and biceps and sculpted shoulders, shoulders that I’m not sure I even have under all the layers of croissant. Part of me worries about over-dressing for the part, calling attention to my weaknesses (spinning really fast while standing) instead of my strengths (rocking out on a hill and singing along with the tunes). When I lack the skills, I’d rather be doing it in a basic (but cute!) uniform that doesn’t attract too much attention.
So, to answer your question honestly, Amy, yes. You require an outfit. Embrace it. Own it. Do it. It’s okay. I’ll help you pick it out, if you’d like. Then you’ll have the right gear for the occasion, and it will be one less thing to worry about. And then we can hit the gym together in style.
Today I can do four push-ups. Tomorrow, after I put on my Lululemon yoga pants, I can most certainly imagine myself doing five.
Let’s pause. For instructional purposes, I’m going to ask you to guess the end of her sentence. Remember, it began with “I don’t.” Was Amy’s predicate:
a) like sweating profusely while pop music pounds in my inner ear, or
b) enjoy riding a stationary bike to nowhere, or
c) have the right outfit.
If you guessed c, then this is the article for you.
Press play.
“Not true!” I said. “You don’t need an outfit. You just need leggings.” I inspected Amy’s legs, which were already clad in tight black lycra. “Like those! You’re good to go.”
And then I invited her to join me any time she wanted to try a class.
We waved goodbye. I watched her go, a thought bubble developing in the empty air between us.
Who was I kidding? Of course she needed an outfit.
Here’s why. A few years ago, I was struggling to complete my doctoral dissertation. It was a bitch. I had just received feedback on a round of revisions that I felt were satisfactory; my doctoral committee disagreed. I had to re-write about 100 pages of text and I didn’t know if I had the mental or physical endurance to do it. I didn’t even know if I cared anymore about finishing my degree. So I did what any self-respecting 38 year old woman would do in such a situation: I scream-cried to my mom on my cell phone about it after dropping off my children at school, with a narrative that went something like this: “I-can’t-won’t-do-this-anymore-hate-them-me-you-Brett-all-suck-getting-fat-want-to-give-up-so-mean!” I hung up on her mid-panic attack and drove around for a while.
Then I went to the gym.
I took a deep breath and entered a 9:30 stretch and strength class, grabbing some 2-pound weights. I selected a spot on the carpet that seemed like a good location based on my ability; just left of center from the middle of the square room. And then I caught a look at my reflection, and panicked all over again.
When my friend Sloan entered the class, I took one look at her and burst into fresh tears.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her sharp blue eyes showing concern. She came and sat next to me.
I told her about the failed attempt to complete my dissertation. “And,” I added, gaining momentum, “everyone in this class is wearing LONG pants and I have on these wide, weird, CROPPED ones!”
“Oh,” she said softly, her consoling eyes gazing around the room. “That’s true.”
But then Sloan gave me some wise advice: It was a problem that was easily fixed. All I had to do was to buy a nice, new pair of long, lean yoga pants. I’d feel better the next time I came to class because I’d blend in. The dissertation? She was sorry, but her advice couldn’t really help me with that.
You may be rolling your eyes at me now, thinking that I’m only going skin deep to believe – and, further, to admit in the newspaper to believing – that what I wear to a stretch class or what my friend Amy (or anyone else for that matter) wears to a spin class (or any other venue, for that matter) matters.
But it does.
We all know that old adage to “dress for success,” which has certain connotations for the business world. In our careers, we have been told to dress more like the part we want to be (boss, leader, corporate somebody) instead of the part we really are (harried mom, student, corporate nobody). Put on a power suit and feel powerful, the advice goes. Well, I would like to suggest that the same is true for gym attire.
I am not what you’d call a big fan of exercise. I lack some pretty elemental hand-eye coordination, making the catching and throwing while running portions of sports implausible. Plus, I am in no way competitive. I could seriously care less if I win or lose on the field. In fact, I used to try my hardest to be picked last for teams in gym, and then wished with all my might to be positioned somewhere on the fringe of the game or deep in the outfield.
Not every sport has an outfield in which to hide. But, they do all have uniforms. Standard outfits, some basics for what to wear while playing (or pretending to play) said game. And so, for me to feel competent and comfortable while at spinning class or in yoga, I need to dress the part. Much like a secretary who hopes someday to have the corner office, I dress for the back row of spin class like I’m someday going to be front and center.
This requires a few pairs of basic (but cute!) leggings and tanks that I can mix and match and grab and go. Having a uniform like this makes my mornings stress-free and makes me feel athletic, even though I’m totally not. In my exercise clothes, I feel like people look at me and say, “Oh, she’s so fit! Look at Julie going off to spin class again.” What they don’t know is that, sometimes, I drive right from spin to my favorite bakery.
They may notice, however, that I do not wear the newest, latest, couture fashion tank, nor do I wear bright leggings or clothing studded with bling. This kind of adorable hipness I reserve for the true athletes. They’ve earned it, what with their triceps and biceps and sculpted shoulders, shoulders that I’m not sure I even have under all the layers of croissant. Part of me worries about over-dressing for the part, calling attention to my weaknesses (spinning really fast while standing) instead of my strengths (rocking out on a hill and singing along with the tunes). When I lack the skills, I’d rather be doing it in a basic (but cute!) uniform that doesn’t attract too much attention.
So, to answer your question honestly, Amy, yes. You require an outfit. Embrace it. Own it. Do it. It’s okay. I’ll help you pick it out, if you’d like. Then you’ll have the right gear for the occasion, and it will be one less thing to worry about. And then we can hit the gym together in style.
Today I can do four push-ups. Tomorrow, after I put on my Lululemon yoga pants, I can most certainly imagine myself doing five.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Life Cycle
I am not much of an athlete. I’ve thought long and hard about why this is, and I’ve narrowed it down to two factors. For one, I lack depth perception. And, for two, I’m a little bit lazy when it comes to physical activity.
As you know, it takes all types of people to make the world spin. There are people who can run around on a field, kick balls or throw passes, and then score goals. Then there are those who can cheer for these people from the safety of a warm bench on the sidelines, sipping hot apple cider under a plaid blanket and looking cute. There are those who can maneuver not only their bodies, but a lacrosse stick as well -- simultaneously! -- and those who can write about them for the local newspaper.
Some people get a healthy glow about them during exercise, while others turn an unnatural shade of purple.
Some can work on a dissertation for ten years, and others can ride a bike.
Guess which one is me.
The first (and only) time that my husband, Brett, took me bicycle riding was on Nantucket. I assured him that I sucked at riding, but he would not be swayed.
Our relationship was relatively new. Dear Brett still believed that anything with me was possible, if only he loved me enough.
“Brett, I suck at this.” I said for the umpteenth time, securing my helmet and walking the rental bike down a dirt path near our cottage.
“It just takes confidence, and practice. You’ll see how easy it is. Your only problem is that you’ve never biked with me before. I’ll be encouraging and supportive.”
“Can’t you be encouraging and supportive about my desire to read four books while sitting under an umbrella on Cisco? In return, I’ll be super encouraging and let you go on a solitary bike ride to Madaket if you want. Heck, go all the way to ‘Sconset! Just let me be.”
He shook his head no. “Three miles. Straight, flat road. From here to Bartlett Farm and back. Easy as pie.”
“Pie! Can we stop and eat pie at Bartlett Farm before heading back?”
“Sure.”
“Mixed berry?”
“Whatever you want.”
I took a moment to deliberate. I was the verge of tasting those freshly picked purple berries as they oozed out from under a crumbly crust. I was also, possibly, on the verge of actually breaking a sweat.
This was a tough call. But there was to be pie. “Okay, I’m in.” I smiled.
We hit the road. This isn’t so bad after all, I thought, biking in front of Brett so that he could keep an eye on me. We had gone about a half a mile and I was starting to like it. A car passed by. Then another. Then several more.
“Stop!” Brett called. There was panic in his tone. “Julie! Stop right now!”
It took me a moment to remember how to brake. I stepped off the bike and turned around. “What happened?” I asked. “Are you okay?”
“Me!?” Brett guffawed. “Me!?”
“What? Me? I was just biking.”
“You swerve into traffic every time a car passes by! It’s like you’re drawn to the cars, by some sick magnetic pull.”
“Oh, yeah, that.” I shrugged. “It’s from my lack of depth perception. You see, I can’t really tell where the road is, where the car is, and where I am.” I used sophisticated hand gestures to illustrate my point.
“But, you’re going to get hit by a car!”
“No kidding! I told you I couldn’t ride a bike.” I put my hands on my hips, striking the classic “I-told-you-so” stance.
“I thought you meant that you couldn’t handle the riding part of riding a bike. Not the oncoming traffic part.”
“Nope. I can ride a bike perfectly well, if only I could do so in a bubble. Like on a bike that never moves.”
“A bike to nowhere.” Brett added.
“Exactly!” I agreed. “A bike to nowhere would be perfect for me.”
And that’s how I fell in love with spinning.
Spinning – riding a stationary bike to nowhere – is my sport. It requires hardly any hand-eye coordination, occurs in a climate-controlled environment, and is accompanied by loud pop music. Most importantly, there is very little chance of ever getting hit by a car while spinning. Need I say more?
My only problem is that I often walk away from a spin class feeling a little disappointed by some aspect of it. The music was annoying, or the teacher wasn’t that great, or the guy next to me smelled bad. Not long ago, I encountered a trifecta, with the convergence of 80’s heavy metal, an obnoxious teacher singing along to the heavy metal, and the slowest, sweatiest, smelliest person in the continental US just to my right. I endured it for 45 minutes, but I never went back.
Alternatively, sometimes spin class is just plain boring.
Enter Soul Cycle, the newly-opened spinning studio above the newish CVS, located at the corner of Popham and Depot roads. Soul Cycle has been popular in NYC for years now, which means that, as a complete suburbanite, I’m only learning about it now. The studio has been opened for about a month here and it already has devoted, obsessed followers. You know the type: people who sign up online for their favorite bike and/or instructor days in advance. Slightly intimidating, well-attired individuals clad head to toe in Lululemon spandex. People who are already really, really fit.
If there is one thing I will never be, it is obsessed with exercise. But I will say that I am really digging this workout. It’s crazy and intense and anything but boring. Plus, some of the instructors are a little bit insane. And I mean that in a totally good way! Great spin teachers need to be endorphin junkies in order to set the tone and pace for the rest of us. They need to dance around a bit, play interesting music, and show some personality. Soul cycle instructors inspire and motivate me, even as I sit on the bike and wonder if my legs will ever move as fast as theirs. (The answer to that is no.)
By the end of the 45 minutes, the room is so steamy, it appears to be raining inside. Indeed, some individuals are so sweaty, they look like they have been rained on. (Pretty image, isn’t it? The ambient candles around the room have kept the space looking and smelling relatively fresh, though.)
On my way out of the studio, I wipe some condensation from the fogged mirrors lining one wall and examine my appearance. My skin is bright purple, as expected, but I don’t care. I’m smiling, and exhausted.
After 39 years, I’ve found my so-called sport. It may not be social, like tennis. But it’s an exercise I love and it’s something I can honestly say I don’t suck at.
So, the next time you take your real bicycle out on the Bronx River Parkway, give a little wave in my direction. I’m up there, in the spin studio, happily pedaling as fast as I can to nowhere.
As you know, it takes all types of people to make the world spin. There are people who can run around on a field, kick balls or throw passes, and then score goals. Then there are those who can cheer for these people from the safety of a warm bench on the sidelines, sipping hot apple cider under a plaid blanket and looking cute. There are those who can maneuver not only their bodies, but a lacrosse stick as well -- simultaneously! -- and those who can write about them for the local newspaper.
Some people get a healthy glow about them during exercise, while others turn an unnatural shade of purple.
Some can work on a dissertation for ten years, and others can ride a bike.
Guess which one is me.
The first (and only) time that my husband, Brett, took me bicycle riding was on Nantucket. I assured him that I sucked at riding, but he would not be swayed.
Our relationship was relatively new. Dear Brett still believed that anything with me was possible, if only he loved me enough.
“Brett, I suck at this.” I said for the umpteenth time, securing my helmet and walking the rental bike down a dirt path near our cottage.
“It just takes confidence, and practice. You’ll see how easy it is. Your only problem is that you’ve never biked with me before. I’ll be encouraging and supportive.”
“Can’t you be encouraging and supportive about my desire to read four books while sitting under an umbrella on Cisco? In return, I’ll be super encouraging and let you go on a solitary bike ride to Madaket if you want. Heck, go all the way to ‘Sconset! Just let me be.”
He shook his head no. “Three miles. Straight, flat road. From here to Bartlett Farm and back. Easy as pie.”
“Pie! Can we stop and eat pie at Bartlett Farm before heading back?”
“Sure.”
“Mixed berry?”
“Whatever you want.”
I took a moment to deliberate. I was the verge of tasting those freshly picked purple berries as they oozed out from under a crumbly crust. I was also, possibly, on the verge of actually breaking a sweat.
This was a tough call. But there was to be pie. “Okay, I’m in.” I smiled.
We hit the road. This isn’t so bad after all, I thought, biking in front of Brett so that he could keep an eye on me. We had gone about a half a mile and I was starting to like it. A car passed by. Then another. Then several more.
“Stop!” Brett called. There was panic in his tone. “Julie! Stop right now!”
It took me a moment to remember how to brake. I stepped off the bike and turned around. “What happened?” I asked. “Are you okay?”
“Me!?” Brett guffawed. “Me!?”
“What? Me? I was just biking.”
“You swerve into traffic every time a car passes by! It’s like you’re drawn to the cars, by some sick magnetic pull.”
“Oh, yeah, that.” I shrugged. “It’s from my lack of depth perception. You see, I can’t really tell where the road is, where the car is, and where I am.” I used sophisticated hand gestures to illustrate my point.
“But, you’re going to get hit by a car!”
“No kidding! I told you I couldn’t ride a bike.” I put my hands on my hips, striking the classic “I-told-you-so” stance.
“I thought you meant that you couldn’t handle the riding part of riding a bike. Not the oncoming traffic part.”
“Nope. I can ride a bike perfectly well, if only I could do so in a bubble. Like on a bike that never moves.”
“A bike to nowhere.” Brett added.
“Exactly!” I agreed. “A bike to nowhere would be perfect for me.”
And that’s how I fell in love with spinning.
Spinning – riding a stationary bike to nowhere – is my sport. It requires hardly any hand-eye coordination, occurs in a climate-controlled environment, and is accompanied by loud pop music. Most importantly, there is very little chance of ever getting hit by a car while spinning. Need I say more?
My only problem is that I often walk away from a spin class feeling a little disappointed by some aspect of it. The music was annoying, or the teacher wasn’t that great, or the guy next to me smelled bad. Not long ago, I encountered a trifecta, with the convergence of 80’s heavy metal, an obnoxious teacher singing along to the heavy metal, and the slowest, sweatiest, smelliest person in the continental US just to my right. I endured it for 45 minutes, but I never went back.
Alternatively, sometimes spin class is just plain boring.
Enter Soul Cycle, the newly-opened spinning studio above the newish CVS, located at the corner of Popham and Depot roads. Soul Cycle has been popular in NYC for years now, which means that, as a complete suburbanite, I’m only learning about it now. The studio has been opened for about a month here and it already has devoted, obsessed followers. You know the type: people who sign up online for their favorite bike and/or instructor days in advance. Slightly intimidating, well-attired individuals clad head to toe in Lululemon spandex. People who are already really, really fit.
If there is one thing I will never be, it is obsessed with exercise. But I will say that I am really digging this workout. It’s crazy and intense and anything but boring. Plus, some of the instructors are a little bit insane. And I mean that in a totally good way! Great spin teachers need to be endorphin junkies in order to set the tone and pace for the rest of us. They need to dance around a bit, play interesting music, and show some personality. Soul cycle instructors inspire and motivate me, even as I sit on the bike and wonder if my legs will ever move as fast as theirs. (The answer to that is no.)
By the end of the 45 minutes, the room is so steamy, it appears to be raining inside. Indeed, some individuals are so sweaty, they look like they have been rained on. (Pretty image, isn’t it? The ambient candles around the room have kept the space looking and smelling relatively fresh, though.)
On my way out of the studio, I wipe some condensation from the fogged mirrors lining one wall and examine my appearance. My skin is bright purple, as expected, but I don’t care. I’m smiling, and exhausted.
After 39 years, I’ve found my so-called sport. It may not be social, like tennis. But it’s an exercise I love and it’s something I can honestly say I don’t suck at.
So, the next time you take your real bicycle out on the Bronx River Parkway, give a little wave in my direction. I’m up there, in the spin studio, happily pedaling as fast as I can to nowhere.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)