I AM PELOTON

For those of you who have had the fortune to ride on a peloton bike, you may relate to my issues, of which there are a many, however, for those of you that have not had this “privileged” experience, you are missing ooohsoooo much.

For those unaware of the latest and greatest of exercise equipment, allow me to explain what Peleton is. To begin, the word is used as a noun and a verb. As in, “are you pelotoning today? “ Or “come on Pelotons, pedal harder.” We are all known as Pelotons as long as we pay $49.95 a month, which allows us to be part of this elite club. I believe country clubs are less expensive. Anyway, Peloton is a stationary exercise bike that you pedal while watching pretty people, both men and women, telling you how wonderful you are. They are called instructors. For some who do not understand this concept, you may find this instruction necessary so that you know when to petal faster, or slower or such terms as “in the saddle” or “out of the saddle.” Once you pay the monthly premium, you are obliged to follow these instructors and no longer can make those decisions on your own. But in reality, the old adage of “once you ride a bike, you never forget” couldn’t be further from the truth as the instructors make you feel like riding a stationary bike is a sport and that you have never done this before. The only difference is you will not get your pant leg caught in the chain and there is also no place to clip on your baseball cards onto the spokes.

Once you understand the objective, you must accept the fact that a pelotoner must wear specific footwear. Don’t be fooled by the person you order the Peloton from. They ask for your foot size and typically, will ship you ½ size too small, telling you that it should be that way. Since riding, my feet have become disfigured, and my toes are now nubs. This is hardly the only issue. In order to “ride” one must cram into the shoe and “Click IN” to a petal that is supposedly made for the shoe you are wearing. This process takes about 3 hours to master. Once you are in, you are ready to ride. However, it takes another 2 hours to learn how to “Click OUT” once your ride is over. Please be prepared to have the strongest ankles known to mankind, because if not, you are not getting out. Which leads me to the nightmare I suffered the night I got my Peloton. In my nightmare, I dreamt riding hard for 30 minutes, trying to keep up with the beautiful instructors, my heart pumping, and no one home except for me, my bike and the instructor who can’t hear me, see me or give a damn about me. All the sudden the pain in my heart forces me to stop, and after trying to get off the bike, I realize I can’t unlock my feet from the pedal. I am stuck struggling to be free, while my heart is pounding, and as I twist and turn to get free, the bike starts tipping over, and over, and there I go, with my feet still locked in place, on my side on the floor, with the machine on top of me, as the instructor is yelling, faster faster you can do it. The good news is I woke up.

Ok, so are you still with me Pelotoners? Now after you are locked in and ready to go, you have to then select a program which consists of various music genres, levels of difficulty, but most important, picking the hottest instructor. Yes I confess. That was one of my stipulations. One instructor is more beautiful than the next. And at risk of sounding gay, not that there is anything wrong with that, the men are as beautiful as the women. They all have Australian accents, which make them even hotter. Now, does anyone have a problem with this? Here I am, 63 years of age, looking to shed a couple of pounds, and on the screen in front of me are the most beautiful sculptured bodies you will ever see. The women with their perky breasts and very tight butts which you can stare out through the mirror that is strategically placed behind them, and the men with abs of steel , bi’s and tri’s that would make the hulk jealous. Let’s not forget about their perfect Californian tans and chiseled facial features. Looking at these robotic creatures for a half an hour, is enough to make anyone sick. As a man, I am appalled at how they demean the male body. We are people too. The degradation of the male anatomy is nothing to take lightly. Men need to be respected.

So now you pick the class, and appearing on your screen is Mr. or MS Peloton, warning you of what you just got yourself into by selecting their class. A bit of warmup, and then the shouting of commands begin as they make you feel like an inadequate human. To make matters worse, they reinforce your inability to keep up by digitally displaying your placement compared to your fellow Pelotoners for all to see. There is nothing worse than being told to work harder, but then to see that you placed 4086th out of 6000 other riders. Such motivation. But you press on, pedal harder, faster, sweat dripping and then you look at the screen and your instructor is riding with no hands, dancing to the music, and telling short stories on how each song effected their lives. “Oh I remember this song, lalalalala, as it was my first dance studio tryout, and “oh this Elton john song is my favorite as it reminds me of my first breakup when I was 9” WHO CARES. So as the instructors sing to us, berates us, make us feel like half the person that we could be, the ride comes to an end, and they have the audacity to thank us for riding with them. As I am giving them the middle finger, I attempt to unlock my swollen feet from the pedal, and get so frustrated, that I leave my shoe locked in and slip my feet out of the shoe.

Finally, one must look at the recap, where you can see the calories that you burned, average speeds etc. and you quickly justify in your mind that now you can go attack the refrigerator for something fattening. After all, you earned it.