keep going

I took an advertising class in college with a student who claimed he could learn everything about a person from their shoes. He could tell your marital status, personality, and other amazing traits just by glancing at the feet. We made him go round the class and reveal individuals’ deepest yearnings and  gnawing fears (read: scorpions). By the end, everyone was in agreement that he was the cleverest student on campus, AND he was from the UK. Mr. Footwear Gypsy even had a British accent. Now he’s a bigwig at an incredible advertising firm in Seattle. (Joke’s on him, I get to advertise green veggies to my three-year-old in ANY accent of our choosing.)

I wish I had been wearing my cycling shoes that day at BYU-Idaho. I could hear the dropped r’s and pronounced syllables: “Are they shoes? Are they spaceships? Were they used by the jets on the streets to take out the other guys?”

 There’s a metal clip on the sole of the shoe that snaps me into the workout, not unlike the harness of a roller coaster. The sweat is unreal. The burn is 800 calories in an hour.

I teach indoor cycling. And I know where the conversation goes from here: you might relate to one of the people strolling past the windows of my class, face smirking, “A STATIONARY bike? Psh-aw,"(Psh-SHAW?) "that looks so easy.”

How could I describe indoor cycling to them? I like to relate it to a famous racehorse jockey. The jockey was notorious for running his horses so hard, the animals’ heart blew up right there on the track. I felt the threat of combustion my first year working at it. I stumbled into the class one morning three years ago. It was one of those awakenings where I discovered fiery anger at my inability to do the thing I was meant to do. I became accustomed to darkening, spotty vision as my cardio was beaten to a pulp, class after class. (Not unlike the effect of a descending demeantor.)

Why would I do this to myself? A voice inside told me, “Keep going.”

It’s for exercisers who enjoy working their imaginations just like their muscles. I am never in a gym for an afternoon workout going nowhere fast. When not pregnant, I’m outrunning the war zone. I’m not jogging it out to a catchy beat, I’m climbing Everest, every time. Don’t forget to acclimatize. I’m literally Seabiscuit, bringing myself right up to the line between passing out and winning. I think of horses quite a bit for motivation, actually, and some of my students have caught on. I’ve even witnessed a couple jockeys cracking invisible backhand whips, clicking their tongues.

“I LOVE IT!” I shout, breathless. And I always tell them, “Keep going.”