It's not about my butt
I have never really liked riding a bike. But Charles enjoys biking. Back when he and I first met, he persuaded me to ride with him.
I'll only ride the bike if it's pink and has a basket and a bell, I said, and a big cushy seat because biking hurts my butt. Pink, bell, basket, cushy seat, I demanded. Otherwise, forget it.
I should have known better than to put Charles to a challenge because before too long a bike we called "Roxie" entered my life. She was pink all over and met every single requirement. I was shocked she even existed.
I loved Roxie, but not because I learned to love riding a bike. I loved Roxie because of what she stood for: my ability to ask for what I want and get it, Charles' willingness to try and please me, a return to childhood whims left unfulfilled, and a dozen other things I could never explain. Sometimes I felt like Roxie represented things I didn't even understand.
Ultimately, Roxie retired. She found her way into the girls' theater program as a prop in the Wizard of Oz and Number the Stars. She's been painted black and then brown and her bell and basket are long gone.
So it was with resignation that I approached the Cycle class at the YMCA. The bikes aren't pink, and the seats aren't cushy. But it had to be done.
Those are, after all, the parameters of the Challenge.
Day 12: 11 am Cycle and TRX
I run into Cam shooting baskets as I arrive at the YMCA. "What are you doing here," he jokes, but we both know what I'm up to.
I motion to my shorts. Cam smiles, and I know he notices my getup. I've decided to try Charles' padded bike shorts today, which effectively makes me look like I've strapped an extra butt to my butt.
A few weeks ago Lucy took a picture of Ava with her arm around me as we were walking in front of her. Ugh, my butt, I thought, for what I am sure was the 1,600,000th time in my life. It's enormous. How can it be that after almost 2 weeks of steady exercise my butt is still so big?
I arrive at the studio and set up my bike. I know the settings now and it's an easy task. This class is relatively packed. My classmates are all older than me, but I'm used to that by now, and see it less as an indicator of class difficulty and more indicative of the general clientele of the YMCA here in the summer in Boothbay.
Two classmates arrive together, and I assume they are husband and wife. Husband gets help putting his feet into the straps and gleefully counts along with Abby as she leads us in Tabata intervals on the bike.
Abby tells us that the theme for today is "faith in ourselves" and reminds us that we can set the resistance knob to our own level of difficulty. Thinking of my enormous butt, I challenge myself and really get my heart rate up. My leg muscles are burning and my butt hurts. The padded shorts are not really working but I push through it.
We finish the workout and head to the studio for TRX which is kind of like stretching and kind of like a circus act from Cirque du Soleil. Husband doesn't participate in the TRX, and I figure hanging from the ceiling while doing push ups isn't for everyone.
Husband starts to walk among us saying "Come on", and "Let's go", and at first I think he's taking up the role of a motivational coach. But soon it's clear he's getting impatient and wants to leave. Wife packs up during the last set of stretches and they depart before the class ends.
Abby thanks us for a great class. Then she thanks us for our patience today. She smiles as she tells us how great the class was for Husband and how wonderful Wife is to him.
It catches me off guard.
Midway through the class, I'd already realized that all of this exercise I'm doing- it's not about the size of my butt. It's about relieving my anxiety, I thought. It's especially about the writing, I thought.
It's about...
I'm smiling and thanking Abby when a space opens in my mind. What is it about, I think.
The question opens like an abyss. The space is dark and deep and it doesn't fill with answers. It fills with more questions; some I recognize, and some I don't.
What is it about, I think, as I head back outside into the beautiful Maine day.
I'll only ride the bike if it's pink and has a basket and a bell, I said, and a big cushy seat because biking hurts my butt. Pink, bell, basket, cushy seat, I demanded. Otherwise, forget it.
I should have known better than to put Charles to a challenge because before too long a bike we called "Roxie" entered my life. She was pink all over and met every single requirement. I was shocked she even existed.
I loved Roxie, but not because I learned to love riding a bike. I loved Roxie because of what she stood for: my ability to ask for what I want and get it, Charles' willingness to try and please me, a return to childhood whims left unfulfilled, and a dozen other things I could never explain. Sometimes I felt like Roxie represented things I didn't even understand.
Ultimately, Roxie retired. She found her way into the girls' theater program as a prop in the Wizard of Oz and Number the Stars. She's been painted black and then brown and her bell and basket are long gone.
So it was with resignation that I approached the Cycle class at the YMCA. The bikes aren't pink, and the seats aren't cushy. But it had to be done.
Those are, after all, the parameters of the Challenge.
Day 12: 11 am Cycle and TRX
I run into Cam shooting baskets as I arrive at the YMCA. "What are you doing here," he jokes, but we both know what I'm up to.
I motion to my shorts. Cam smiles, and I know he notices my getup. I've decided to try Charles' padded bike shorts today, which effectively makes me look like I've strapped an extra butt to my butt.
A few weeks ago Lucy took a picture of Ava with her arm around me as we were walking in front of her. Ugh, my butt, I thought, for what I am sure was the 1,600,000th time in my life. It's enormous. How can it be that after almost 2 weeks of steady exercise my butt is still so big?
I arrive at the studio and set up my bike. I know the settings now and it's an easy task. This class is relatively packed. My classmates are all older than me, but I'm used to that by now, and see it less as an indicator of class difficulty and more indicative of the general clientele of the YMCA here in the summer in Boothbay.
Two classmates arrive together, and I assume they are husband and wife. Husband gets help putting his feet into the straps and gleefully counts along with Abby as she leads us in Tabata intervals on the bike.
Abby tells us that the theme for today is "faith in ourselves" and reminds us that we can set the resistance knob to our own level of difficulty. Thinking of my enormous butt, I challenge myself and really get my heart rate up. My leg muscles are burning and my butt hurts. The padded shorts are not really working but I push through it.
We finish the workout and head to the studio for TRX which is kind of like stretching and kind of like a circus act from Cirque du Soleil. Husband doesn't participate in the TRX, and I figure hanging from the ceiling while doing push ups isn't for everyone.
Husband starts to walk among us saying "Come on", and "Let's go", and at first I think he's taking up the role of a motivational coach. But soon it's clear he's getting impatient and wants to leave. Wife packs up during the last set of stretches and they depart before the class ends.
Abby thanks us for a great class. Then she thanks us for our patience today. She smiles as she tells us how great the class was for Husband and how wonderful Wife is to him.
It catches me off guard.
Midway through the class, I'd already realized that all of this exercise I'm doing- it's not about the size of my butt. It's about relieving my anxiety, I thought. It's especially about the writing, I thought.
It's about...
I'm smiling and thanking Abby when a space opens in my mind. What is it about, I think.
The question opens like an abyss. The space is dark and deep and it doesn't fill with answers. It fills with more questions; some I recognize, and some I don't.
What is it about, I think, as I head back outside into the beautiful Maine day.
Did you ever figure out what it was about??
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