December 17, 2024

the climb

The man on the stationary bike is on his sixth mile, which I only know
from stealing a glance at his digital readout. In less than 30 minutes, 
he’s burned more than 300 calories, his heartrate at 110. I’m nudging 160
two miles in on the “Hills Plus” setting when “Not Strong Enough”
comes up on my playlist. I fast forward to “Something Burning,” 
then “Fire and Fury” and click the cadence up a notch. 

Elsewhere in the room, an octogenarian reads the paper 
as he soft-shoes the treadmill. A woman my mother’s age is stretching 
languidly near a weight machine designed, according to the graphic
emblazoned on its trunk, to isolate the triceps. Sweat descends 
from my temple, drips on the keypad. My calves strain against 
the tallest of the program’s hills. I am all push now, my shoulders
Quasimodoed over the handlebars, my sternum pulsing visibly.

I don’t know who this person is, this cyclist going nowhere, vying 
for an upper seed on a tournament no one else seems to be playing. Still,
I love her for the way she pretends, for a damp half-hour, the contest 
is in full swing. Look at her, fingers clenched around hard plastic,
neck taut with purpose, eyes on the countdown, her entire body willing 
to make the climb, no matter what.