Fitness Cycles

At Bally’s gym, happenstance placed me on an exercise bike next to a serious minded middle-aged woman. I attempted in vain to keep up with her spinning legs but I quickly settled into a 6 mph trailer crawl. She had never broken stride by the time I baled on the ride ten minutes down the road.

A half an hour later, this ambitious woman appeared next to me in the free weight area, where she grabbed heavier dumbbells and out-muscled me on the arm curls. She later outstretched me on the floor mat. On an incline bench, she accomplished more sit-ups. She completed more repititions than I on the lat pull down bar. A picture of fitness, she only grimaced during exercises that made me profusely sweat. By the closing ceremonies, I was intramural athletic to her Olympian effort.

I mused over leaving the gym at the same time. The airport sound of my rolling gym bag on wheels made a mockery of my state of fitness compared to her shoulder straggling backpack. To my chagrin and pride, I detected no signs of actual fatigue from her gold medal performance.

I chatted, “It’s a good feeling to be finished with a workout.”

“Yes it is.” she replied.

Heading off to my car, we strangely parted company where the sidewalk met the parking lot. By the time my lard butt touched my car’s leather seat, this woman had simply disappeared. I never saw her pull out of the lot.

As more irony would have it, I passed her on the shoulder of a two-lane road. Leading with a Greg Lemond chin, she pedaled a shiny bicycle into the biting wind of a winter day. I floored it. Forget about the unfair advantage of a gasoline alley because I incautiously sped ahead of her for the first time in her workout. I leaned on my horn, beeping it in shallow victory.