November 12, 2006
There’s a point I reach about eleven minutes into my half-hour, six-mile stationary bike ride when I’m pretty sure I could win the Tour de France. There’s another point about twenty-eight minutes into my half-hour, six-mile bike ride when I decide I really need to buy a second pair of sweatpants, since I’ll have to wash the pair I own for the eighth time in as many days.
The place is enormous — huge, two-story windows take up an entire wall, facing the football field (where, fortunately, few can see you in compromised positions, i.e. red in the face and sweating miserably, plagued with visions of cycling grandeur). Another wall is devoted to rock-climbing, though I haven’t been brave enough to try it out just yet. There are two floors of equipment, most with individual televisions (yes! Individual televisions!), and if you aren’t so blessed to have your own little TV, there are four giant flat-screens suspended from the ceiling. Simply leave your ID at the front desk, and you’re given a set of headphones.
I am not an avid exerciser, but the