Yours portly has had a lifelong aversion to exercise. Not physical exertion, per se—I grew up moving furniture around my parents’ Victorian house and still lug sound equipment hither and yon—but the idea of physical exertion for its own sake. Why sweat when you don’t have to?
Well, because it’s not “physical exertion for its own sake”; exercise serves a greater purpose in that it improves one’s health. The physical benefits of exercise are, of course, well-documented: weight loss and/or management; greater strength; increased stamina; better cardiovascular health; etc. The mental benefits are pretty profound, too: better sleep; better mood; better ways to sweat out the bottled-up rage of decades.
Still, even with all the alleged benefits, I’ve rarely been one to go out of my way to seek additional physical exertion just because—gasp!—it might be good for me. Exercise is hard. It’s sweaty and unpleasant. Especially when I was working full-time, I dealt with enough sweaty unpleasantness that, in my precious spare time, I preferred to stay glued to my computer desk chair than move around unnecessarily.
Naturally, that’s partially why yours portly is, well, portly (not to mention my unhealthy relationship with food—I’m a sensualist when it comes to eating mish-mashed leftovers). Living life as a larger-than-life bon vivant has its advantages, but it also carries some hefty baggage.
So I’ve been taking some small steps towards improving my overall physical (and mental) health. Dr. Wife and I take a long walk most nights after dinner. I’ve been doing that for a few months now. I enjoy walking, but as my older brother once told me (to paraphrase), “walking is good, but it takes a tremendous amount of time [to see any real caloric burn].” If Dr. Wife isn’t with me I’ll sometimes get in some brief interval running, but I’m not consistent with that at all.
What’s a portly bon vivant to do?
“Eat less, fatso”—hey, I heard that! But, yes, I’m doing that (imperfectly).
“Find exercise that works for you, tubsy”—ah, yes. A good solution. Well, walking works for me, but, as my older brother has noted, it’s fairly inefficient. Running is unpleasant (again, most exercise, for someone like me, is).
Dr. Wife, as usual, presented the solution in the way only an upper-middle class American white girl can: ride the Peloton.
I have a vivid early memory of my parents having a crusty second-hand exercise bike on the back porch at our old house. I also remember my paternal grandmother, Mama Cook, having an exercise bike on her and Papa Cook’s screened-in porch (it’s likely it was the same bike, as I seem to recall some manner of transfer of the bike, but that could be a false memory). Even as a little kid who liked to explore the woodline next to our house, I was never big on exercise, sweating, etc. But I did like the exercise bike (although I probably only ever got on it a handful of times before it mysteriously disappeared).
The Peloton is the wealthy white lady version of the 1990s exercise bike. It’s expensive and has a flashy touchscreen and has classes with impossibly cheery people who play cloying pop music while shouting inspirational nothings at you.
I love it.
At first, I hated it. Dr. Wife taught me how to use it last week and, as I do when I’m trying an exercise that’s new, I was a huge baby about it.
You have to put on these annoying plastic shoes that physically click into the pedals of the Peloton. Immediately, visions of being stuck on the Peloton, waiting for Dr. Wife to come home to my emaciated, dehydrated husk, danced through my head. Never mind that “unclicking” is fairly easy; to yours portly, those shoes meant an eternity in exercise purgatory.
The shoes themselves are also difficult to put on. There’s this plastic strap that ratchets through a tiny little sliver of an opening. When you’re tall, fat, and inflexible, trying to find that little opening is extremely difficult. Indeed, I suspect the difficulty is Peloton’s crafty way to dupe you into stretching (I don’t believe in stretching—I mean, I believe it exists, but you’re already asking me to exercise; now I have to do more exercise just so I can exercise?—no thanks).
The saddle—a fancy name for a seat—is like sitting on a plastic needle designed to maximize gluteal discomfort. My cheeks were ablaze with discomfort. As is often the case with bike saddles, too, they’re not exactly crafted with the male anatomy in mind. I’ll leave it at that.
As soon as I started to pedal, my left knee hurt. I had to dismiss Dr. Wife from the room so she wouldn’t see my chubby shame. I angrily “unclicked” myself, took stock of the situation, and told myself I wouldn’t let a lady’s bike defeat me. I soon realized that I needed to raise the seat a few inches so I didn’t have my knees touching my double chins while pedaling.
Suddenly, the knee pain went away. Then I found this bald Asian guy playing classic rock hits. I settled back into a twenty-minute ride.
And I did it!
And I’ve been doing it every day (except for this past weekend) since!
Yesterday I did my first thirty-minute ride, and it kicked my butt. At one point, I just had to stop pedaling and adjust myself. But then I got back in the groove and finished strong.
I’ve had little spurts and starts of exercise before, as long-time readers know. But I think the Peloton is sustainable for one key reason: it’s in my air-conditioned house. It’s literally right there, a massive, looming presence in our sunroom. It’s sitting there, taunting me, “come on, fat boy, you can’t beat me!” You’re a bike built for suburban trophy second-wives to stay hot for their rich husbands. I can handle you, Peloton!
As fat is my witness, I will ride again!