End of the Ride
how my peloton came to represent everything i hate about myself
I bought some ridiculous things while I was stuck at home the past year. An electric toothbrush I despise. A KitchenAid mixer I rarely use. Books I’ve yet to read. And a Peloton bike.
I had good intentions for the bike. Winter was coming and I had to put my bicycle away because it was getting too cold for me to ride in the mornings. A Peloton was a great idea. I’d ride every day during winter, keep my cardio up, lose some weight. It would be good for controlling my Type 2 Diabetes. Mostly, it would give me something to do besides sit on the couch and stare at my laptop. I was excited at the prospect of having a piece of real exercise equipment in my house. There would be no excuses.
I’ve never been great at maintaining a diet or an exercise regimen. There are multiple accounts of me losing fifty pounds in the past few years that I would gain back soon after. I’d join the gym, go religiously for a few months, then skipping a day or two would turn into a week or two and I’d stop going all together. I ran for a little while. I did the Wii Fit (with great results) for about six months, I went vegan at some point and quit sugars and carbs at another. All these things came and went like a personal fad.
And this is me. I start things with great gusto but fail at the follow through. I’ll be completely manic about a new project and as my mania fades and I lose interest in what I’ve been doing, I start to feel bad about myself. My forays into self improvement always end up doing the opposite of what I set out to do. You would think I’d learn and maybe just never start something new so I don’t have the eventual downfall, but no. Even my entertainment suffers. I’ll start binge watching a show and lose interest five episodes in. I have a hard time committing to anything that needs to hold my attention for more than five minutes. Boredom sets in and I look for some new endeavor to hold my interest for a bit, leaving behind a trail of unfinished projects, tv shows, and health regimens.
The bike came in early November and I swore I would go all in. This time would be different. This would be thing that I finally follow through on. I joined a local Peloton Facebook group as well as the official group. What I saw there made me a little leery of what I was getting into it. Peloton is not just a brand name, not just a piece of equipment. It is a way of life, I was told. It would change me fundamentally. I would be a brand new person, and lord knows being a brand new person was appealing to me.
I saw photos of people celebrating their 50th, 100th, 500th rides with balloons and banners. I saw people with home gyms decorated with the Peloton logo. I read posts from people who viewed the instructors as members of their families at best, and as object at worst. The groups were a weird mix of people flexing their wealth and their bodies, people who genuinely sought advice from members who would just make fun of them, and people repeating mantras and platitudes. I decided not to let the groups color my experience with the Peloton. I would ride for me and me only, and not care about my numbers, not care what my fellow riders thought of my efforts. I just wanted to be moving, even it was riding nowhere.
I rode all of November, most of December. I watched my output increase, my time and miles slowly move up, and it all felt good when I got off the bike even if it felt terrible when I was on it. I never felt the intensity of riding that people talked about, but I was moving and I was bettering myself so each day I talked myself into getting on the damn thing.
When it started to feel like a chore to get on, I switched it up and listened to my own music while doing scenic rides so I didn’t have to look at an instructor putting me to shame. I made the most of it. For $100 a month between the cost of the bike and the membership, I had better make the most of it. I wasn’t all in on it yet - not like those in the groups I belonged to - but I didn’t hate it.
The pandemic and all that came with it hit me hard, mentally. I was depressed, anxious, withdrawn. I didn’t think anyone noticed but me. I thought I was outwardly projecting a healthy sense of self. I didn’t tell anyone close to me how I was feeling because I thought it was just temporary and that I could hide it well. I put on a smile. I talked a good game. I got on that bike. “Look at me, I’m coping,” I seemed to say. But I wasn’t coping and I was drifting from people, people who love me. I was pushing away and barely even noticing that my husband was going through the same emotions as me.
But that Peloton was going to fix everything. I’d be loaded with endorphins. I’d ride my way to better mental health. That’s what it was doing for everyone in those groups, and why should I be any different? One ride, five rides, ten rides, ok when do the magical healing powers kick in? When I hit my 20th ride I did feel a small surge of pride but it was fleeting and didn’t translate into other areas of my life. I kept going. I was going to make this piece of metal and wires work for me.
My husband told me on January 30th that he was moving out. I remember thinking of all the people in the Peloton groups who said they were going through something devastating and getting on the bike and riding was the only thing that made them feel better, that putting in a 45 minute class with Cody or whoever made them feel empowered and cleared their head.
I couldn’t even look at the bike without feeling bad. I felt like it was from another time, that it belonged to another me. I thought of proudly telling my husband about my output numbers, about how many miles I rode. I thought about bettering myself, and how I wanted that mental health push so I could reconnect with my him and feel more like the partner I was before my depression sucked the life out of me. The Peloton was now a mark of failure. Maybe I had put a lot of pressure on it, but for $2,000 I think that pressure was well placed. It came to symbolize lost hopes and dreams and I resented its very presences in my bedroom.
Well-meaning people tried to get me to ride again. “It will be good for you,” they said. “You’ll feel better if you just get back on it.” But I had no desire to get on that bike. I didn’t want to exercise. I didn’t want to better myself. I wanted to wallow and wither and waste away. I wanted to sink into my sadness and depression and let all those negative emotions overtake me. Getting on the bike would take effort, and I didn’t have it in me.
Days melted together and turned into weeks and then it was a month and I got an email from Peloton asking where I’ve been, which made me break down sobbing. Where have I been? I’ve been right here, on my couch, being lonely and sad and full of self loathing. Got anything for that? Is a half hour Coldplay ride going to fix me? I deleted the email and decided right there that I needed to get rid of the bike. It was nothing more than a constant reminder of my failures, of my inability to follow through with anything, of my penchant for starting things and never finishing them, like health regimens and marriages.
Someone came and picked up the Peloton a few days ago. I’ve felt freer ever since. Not seeing that in my bedroom every morning has lessened my resentment toward myself. I know I’m not fixing anything by just pushing my failures out of sight, but it’s a good remedy for now and now is what I have to worry about. There will be other projects, other ideas that I dive into with zeal. Some of them will be less expensive than a Peloton, some of them will be less taxing than a relationship.
One of these days I’ll complete something I start. I’ll ride that mania to the very end, or at least until I feel accomplished. That day is not now. And that’s got to be okay.
Thanks for putting words to what I'm feeling.