I'm retired. I'm wearing baggy gray knicker sweat pants, an old cycling event t-shirt that's been liberally customized with scissors, and a pair of well-worn Chuck Taylor Converse sneakers. The two guys are young, pulled together, sculpted, and stylishly tattooed.
I adjust my ear buds and the volume on my music. Pedal, pedal, pedal. Sweat drips down my neck. My mouth is open as I gasp a bit for air. Every five minutes a Metorail train crosses the Miami River on the bridge outside the gym's wall of windows. My eyes follow each train as it goes by.
I'm getting back to my old cycling schedule. This is the time I normally head out for a bike ride. Since a spin bike is the only bike I can ride until January 1, I'm in the gym. The workout is good, but the going-nowhere-ness of a spin bike is just plain weird. Every day I swear I'm never doing this again. But here I am, back one more time.
The sculpted, tattooed gym rats watch me warily as I gasp for air, concerned, I fear, that they may have to call 911 at any moment. But before they actually feel the need to panic, my playlist ends. Another day on the spin bike is done.
I nod a goodbye as I head for the door. See you tomorrow.
