Don’t Fuck With Me, I Ride a Stationary Bike

What do you think you’re looking at, punk? Do you want to fight? I wouldn’t get too close if I were you, are you an idiot? Have you seen how absolutely lean my legs are? Pure muscle, baby. This isn’t even Soul Cycle, I’m self-taught. I’ve pumped those pedals day in and day out. My local Planet Fitness has a reserved parking spot for me. They even have my name on one of the bike racks, just in case I ever decide to take my talents to the streets.

Yeah, I see those other cardio machines, and they don’t scare me. I’m sure I could run on that glorified grocery store conveyor belt, but why would I? Do you know what goes faster than any legs? That’s right, wheels. Bikes. The Two-Tire Talent. I’m certainly not getting on an elliptical. I’d rather sit backward on my stationary bike than start hopping on top of that make-believe workout machine. My thighs have taken up permanent residence pumping against these pedals, not against gravity. Walking? Any exercise I do by accident shouldn’t be considered an exercise. Biking is calculated, but stationary biking? College-level calculus.

The Peloton ad definitely affected me, personally. People mocked the bike on all platforms…Twitter, Facebook, others. It became too much. I stopped riding the circle stallion for a little while. Those were the darkest days. The humiliation hurt, but the pain of my aching muscles hurts better, so I got back to my roots. I needed to, would Serena Williams stay off the court? Would Michael Phelps stay out of the water? Would disgraced Lance Armstrong stay off the bike? Actually that last one is a possibility, remind me to Google that later. Actually I’ll do it now, I can go hands-free on this thing.

Yeah, apparently he still bikes. I also forgot about the one testicle thing…anyway.

I know my place, and that place is seated in a crowded $10 a month gym. I train for every skill. Speed. Agility. Grace. I am a gazelle on the bike, escaping the lions of my past, rolling through the jungle floor at a 5.5 speed and 2.5 incline. Sweat plasters my ass to the seat, the seat which is also the size of a bike helmet. Not that I’d know, I have no use for helmets where I’m going (or rather, not going). I stay safe in this air-conditioned room, away from the chaos of a car race car world.

If you’re looking for a fight, I suggest you check the other side of the gym. Those meatheads just want to lift and drop, lift and drop. Mindless robots to society’s expectations of being “ripped” and “jacked”. Those buffoons lack prowess, integrity, and develop back pain. I sit at a perfect 90-degree angle and play Wordscapes on my phone while I do so. I am enhancing both my mind and my intelligence while they become more defeated with each rise and fall of the barbell.

So unless you have the stamina, leg power, and mental capacity to really take me down, I suggest you get on a moving bike and take that aggression elsewhere.



Alyssa is from Philadelphia and is always cold. She likes overpriced coffee, audibly cracking her joints, and bashing the Beatles. She is on Twitter constantly, follow her @cakegirlboss.

Categories: Fiction

Daily Drunk

Shawn Berman runs The Daily Drunk. You can follow him on Twitter @Sbb_writer.

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