I’m pretty sure I’ve got the hang of the pedalling action. Up and down, push and pull. And I can keep it going for ages … oh, for 15 minutes. Sometimes I push it to 16 or 18, if I’m feeling a bit athletic. And only if there’s nobody lurking obviously, pacing the floor behind me, casually toying with the weights, waiting to pump out their own Alpe d’Huez. I once did 30 minutes, I was the only one there. I think it was just after New Year and nobody else had surfaced yet. It was mind numbing.
In fact, the noticeboard says 15 minutes maximum on each piece of equipment. And I stick to the rules, adhere to the etiquette, at the morning gym session. Normally a gathering place for retired people. Not me, of course. I’m young, and wear black.
The bike with the broken pedal strap is a bit awkward, and everybody avoids it. I try not to watch the TV as I pedal. It’s Jeremy whatshisname, giving the dregs of humanity their fifteen minutes of fame. Well, that’s my 15 minutes, and they’re not invading it. Anyway, my attention is mostly on the clock.
So I have prepared myself – a bit – for the physical challenge of cycling. I’ve felt the burn, the heart pounding. I do the bike thing because, in the back of my mind, I know I’ll have to learn to ride and I know it will be sore. Like on the road to our house. It’s not steep actually, but it’s a bit uphill and thigh power will definitely be required.
Actually, another confession. I haven’t been to the gym for two weeks!
