Out, For A Spin

The new year rolled around, twelve months after the last one, as it tended to. Certain things were common in January. Returning unwanted Christmas gifts to shops, calls to personal injury attorneys for slipping on icy sidewalks on someone else's property, and the absolute worst movies you've ever seen are ditched in the vacuum left between the competitive holiday season and the award shows.

But of course, the most common January event... was the New Year's resolution. That piece of self-delusion that inspires someone to decide that a completely arbitrary date was the time to improve themselves. Any other day would do, but something about buying a new calendar sets it off, one that's not yet marked up with doctor's appointments and other crap everyone was obligated to do. The purity of the new year before you like untouched snow... that needs to be shoveled so you can get to the job you hate.

Of those unfulfilled attempts at self-improvement, none were more common than the hopeful January gym membership. Surely, some people chose the coldest month to join a gym because that was when it was the least safe and least pleasant time to attempt to go for a jog through the city. But most of these memberships were like poking a hole in a barrel, leaking dollars out every month for no gain like the forgotten wine subscription box. (Those things used to be called 'such-and-such-of-the-month clubs' and they were rightly mocked for decades gone by. Everything old is new again.)

Most years, Simone resisted this urge of self-improvement. Her life was going fine, for the most part. Her career was acceptable, her apartment was sufficiently spacious, her car was gently used and she had no debt.

Then again, her apartment felt so large because she lived in a two-bedroom... alone. And as if to subconsciously fill the space... Simone had gained weight.

Simone really couldn't blame her breakup for her recent weight gain. That was almost a year ago. That's be like blaming pregnancy for weight when the kid has his learner's permit. But Simone had been steadily, if slowly, putting on the pounds for a few years now. It wasn't the reason for the breakup, but it might as well have been, because the real reason was much less rational.

Some of her newfound weight went into her breasts, bringing her up a cup size. She was alright with this, but she didn't want to have to buy a battalion of new brassieres. The battle continued below, as panties failed to reach across her buttocks, turning more and more of them into thongs. Worse, the rest of her was growing wider at an equal rate. Her belly was now distinctly a belly. No matter how big coffee shops were making muffins these days, she could not call it a 'muffin top' anymore.

Simone didn't think she looked bad at all. She had the lovely curves of a fertility goddess, perhaps ironically due to her lack of romantic attachment. But Simone had been weighing herself intermittently over the last year. Her weight had been increasing, if gradually.

It was time to get this under control before she needed to buy a whole new wardrobe.

There were lots of advice about how to lose weight available on the internet. Some of it was undoubtedly quackery. Anything that advertised it as 'one weird trick' went straight into the waste bin of her mind. All the research boiled down to the obvious: diet and exercise.

Well, Simone didn't want to diet, or at least not drastically. Without romantic entanglement, food was the only real carnal pleasure left to her. So that just left the one option.

Upon renewing her lease at the start of the year, Simone saw that her building did, indeed, allow her to own exercise equipment in her apartment. (She could have downsized to save some money on rent now that she was alone, but moving was such a pain that she'd just stay here until she found someone new... whenever that was.)

If she was allowed to get some form of home gym... maybe Simone could get one of those trendy modern exercise bikes. She used to love cycling around her neighborhood when she was younger, but that old ten-speed was one of many things she surrendered to get a life in the city. For all the time she spent yelling at thoughtless bike messengers driving through city traffic, she'd feel like a hypocrite if she started up again.

Simone used her favorite search engine to look at stationary bikes. There were some cheap ones available on classified ad websites, but she didn't fancy getting an intact bike into an elevator and into her apartment. This brought her to the slightly ritzier ones with the tablet affixed to the front, the exercise plans that included live instructors to encourage you on your imaginary journey.

One particular company advertised free delivery and home assembly for their unit. It even came with a heart monitor. There was also an interesting guarantee: if the user used it for three full sessions a week for the first year, the entire cost of the machine would be returned. That sounded like a bad idea, since Simone had failed most of her New Year's resolutions. But she could afford this even if she failed. She could show house guests her three thousand dollar sweatshirt rack.

Simone didn't spring for the 'next-day shipping' that was offered on the vendor's website. Nevertheless, it did show up the next day, right around ten o'clock. The crate was delivered by two women, one a few inches shorter than the other, both in green jumpsuits with white accents. They looked almost like members of a pit crew, though that could also be attributed to the masterful way the pair assembled the bike from its component parts. Simone watched them work while sipping her coffee in her bathrobe. She did offer them some, but they said they'd accept it after the work was done.

She got out two more mugs and got them ready just as they finished the device. It looked a little different than she expected. Most of these stationary bikes had a large front 'wheel' that simulated the front wheel on a real bike. Here, the front of the bike had a large plastic bullet-like facade, rounded like the front of a monorail train. She didn't know what the purpose of this thing was except to make this thing larger and harder to move about. She was glad to have it in a corner of her apartment that didn't see much use.

In every other way, it seemed like the fashionable high-tech exercise machine that it was. Sculpted adjustable handlebars and seat, heavy-duty pedals with detachable foot straps, a power cord that ran discreetly under the device to reach a nearby wall outlet, the huge touchscreen television that served as the window to the world and the brand name emblazoned on the body of the device: Effürta.

Simone offered the coffee to the two workers. They sipped their mugs as they handed her the operations manual, a paperback tome the size of a self-indulgent first novel.

"You don't really need to read it all, but it's good to have on hand in case there's a problem with the unit." The taller tech said. "Scheduled maintenance is free, but unscheduled maintenance calls will cost extra."

"Don't be scared, though." Said the shorter tech. "Just like your computer, nine times out of ten, just power-cycle the device. It'll clear up most problems."

"Speaking of scheduled maintenance..." The taller tech produced a tablet with a form on it. "Would you please sign this contract for the free scheduled maintenance to the device?"

Simone held her finger out to sign, as was the style in the modern era. The word 'contract' brought her to being stuck with an old iPhone for two years longer than she wanted it. (At least she never cracked the screen!)

"How long is the contract for?" Simone asked.

"Lifetime of the device. Or, when you want to discontinue the Effürta program. You can quit whenever you like."

Simone sighed. "I guess that's better if I don't keep up with this."

"I can get you a less beneficial contract, if you think that will encourage your exercise routine." The taller tech switched the forms on the device with alarming speed.

"No, that's OK. I'll take the option where I can quit if I wimp out."

Simone signed the document. The two women left, hauling out all the detritus left from the shipping crate. They didn't leave a trace of the packaging, not a speck of styrofoam or a single strip of tape. The only thing Simone was left to open herself was the heart monitor.

She expected to retrieve a handsome knock-off smart watch, but instead found a box of electrocardiogram pads, the kind that might legitimately be used in a hospital. It also had a diagram showing exactly where to place them, one gently to the right of the center of the sternum, and one underneath the left breast. She hoped these things would not come loose if she were to develop the hard booby sweat that she sometimes got during real workouts, like... vaccuming.

When she checked the diagram, Simone found how to check her heart rate. She connected a thin wireless transmitter to both pads. The transmitter was already paired with her bike, which displayed her heart rate in the corner of the screen.

The number that appeared before her as she stood around sipping the last of her coffee alarmed her. Ninety-eight beats per minute? Sounded awful high for a standing heart rate... probably. Maybe it went up at the shock of this, which hopefully would not become a vicious cycle.

No big deal, Simone thought. That's what this thing is for, right?

Simone scrolled through the upcoming exercise programs available through the touchscreen monitor on the device. There was one starting soon called Michelle's Hard Ride. The thumbnail featured the host, probably Michelle, with her black hair lashed into a neat ponytail, and a midriff-bearing shirt showing an incredible set of abs.

Her hearts fluttered a moment just at the sight of her. How she'd like to be able to wear something like that again... not that she ever really had... or even wanted to. But wasn't that the ultimate goal of fitness, to look good in anything... or nothing?

The listing said that Michelle's special exercise program specifically designed for Effürta machines was airing at 11:00 AM. That was about fifteen minutes from now.

It was time for Simone to change into her workout clothes.

Having just spent a few grand on this new lifestyle chance, Simone wasn't about to spend money on something she might not wear more than a few times. Her 'workout gear' was an old stretched out concert T-shirt and drawstring shorts that she normally wore when she did laundry.

For the first time, Simone mounted her new stationary bike. The huge screen in front of the handlebars, where gorgeous mountain paths or thrilling seaside roads might fly by, was currently an animated countdown to the start of the broadcast. Simone could almost hear the nonexistent bike engines starting all around here. She got her feet on the pedals and got ready. Three... two... one....

After the countdown, the screen went to black for a moment before returning as an extra-close-up shot of a fast-food hamburger, decadent and perfectly constructed as they only really were in the commercials. After all that waiting, and paying for this device... she still had to sit through an ad?

A few seconds later, the Skip Ad button appeared on the lower-right of the screen, just in time for salty French fries to scatter towards the screen like a tidal wave. As much as she loved French fries, Simone released the right handlebar and tapped the Skip Ad button.

The commercial continued. She tapped the button again to no avail. The extra value meal was all assembled on the plastic tray, the only aspect that resembled what it did at the restaurant. At least they weren't pretending this burger was served on an antique butcher block cutting board. Simone tapped the skip button a few more times. Every time she tapped it, it grew a bit, as if acknowledging her desire to skip the ad, but deliberately ignoring it.

Suddenly, the commercial slid off the screen. The woman from the thumbnail was there. She stood in front of her own Effürta machine, 'pushing' the commercial away like a curtain. A tall woman with light brown skin, a slightly prominent nose and straight black hair in a ponytail. She had a little headset mic on her left ear, extending to just off one side of her mouth. She wore a black spandex top and shorts with some gray accents on the sides and beneath her breasts, and a white shirt tied around her waist, the sleeves hanging in front of her hips.

Needless to say... she was in excellent shape. Someone might say perfect. Then again, fitness was almost certainly this woman's job. Her thighs and arms were sculpted with some nicely defined muscles, but nothing quite compared to her six-pack. Even in the studio lighting, the shadows of the abs were just visible. This woman was not a bodybuilder or a weightlifter. She was just very... VERY fit.

The hostess smiled a wide mouth of teeth just as perfect as the rest of her. When Simone sat down for this class, she expected to feel self-conscious. She didn't think it'd be about her teeth.

"Welcome to the show. I am Michelle G. Sorry to all the regular attendees that have seen that gag before." She said with a bemused smile. "But it's been a bit, so I wanted to see how many new people I'd get to click that Skip button. Can the graphics people show me how many people fell for it?"

She waved her fingers to her left, where a pie-chart appeared. Only four percent of riders actually clicked the Skip button, a tiny sliver of pie that wouldn't satisfy a mouse. Simone felt a little silly. Maybe this was a Pavlovian thing to teach her not to skip ads when the service migrated to an ad-supported model... maybe it was our host just being goofy.

"Wow." Michelle looked to her right and acknowledged the pie graph. "Of course, I can't actually see it, since that's a special effect. But I'll assume it's a lot."

She continued, "Sometimes, we lose someone for that gag. Maybe they just get struck with hunger, or maybe they resent the joke. But I always confess this when I do the burger gag..."

Michelle stepped closer to the camera, until only her face and shoulders were in shot. She really was beautiful, Simone thought, especially in close-up. She was sort of exotically, uniquely beautiful, maybe someone who didn't have to dedicate their life to fitness to get anyone they wanted. Must be nice...

"Here's my big confession." Michelle cupped one hand to the side of her mouth and stage-whispered into the camera. "I love burgers."

Simone had never known how thrilling it would be to have a beautiful woman whisper something like that to her. Her heart was already beating hard... and she hadn't even pedaled her bike so much as one virtual inch!

"I do. I love hamburgers. I don't eat them too often, because I do try to limit my consumption of red meat. But if I could choose between steak and a burger, I'll choose the burger. I'll even get a fast-food hamburger every four or five months to remind myself that... despite objectively not being a good hamburger, there is something that makes people come back to it. It can be hard to break that spell, and I'm here to tell you: I understand. Especially that one fast food that starts with W. My actual sponsors don't want me to say it, but I think you know that I'm talking about Walhburger's. Just kidding. I've never been.

"I'm not here to tell you what to eat. Like Arnie says, it's all just fuel for the body. I'm also not one of those fitness queens who tells you that everyone has the same twenty-four hours. I have a nutritionist and a cook who handles my meals. They're giving me THEIR hours for money. We all have the same time, but even having a job that's not based on fitness makes it harder to dedicate what's left to it. This IS my job, and I love it, but there's nothing inspiring about me doing what I get paid to do. So I'm here to tell you... however you exercise, so long as you do it and don't hurt yourself in the process... I'm proud of you."

Occasionally, Simone's workplace brought in motivational speakers. She never felt very inspired by them, except to maybe look for work as a motivational speaker because apparently THEY didn't have to be good at their jobs. Michelle's speech was more encouraging than any of them had ever been... though you'd have to be very convincing to get people to literally run in place.

Michelle walked back, the camera following her to her machine. It was mostly identical to Simone's brand new bike, with the absence of the large monitor attached to the handlebars. She probably had a big-screen TV to watch whatever she needed to... or maybe she would do this cycling while staring at the stage manager sitting in a fabric chair. Maybe the craft service table was in view, pedaling ever onwards towards those doughnuts!

"We'll start up in a minute, but please, if everyone can review their settings to be sure that this ride will be at your comfort level, that will save you trying to do it on the road, so to speak. You can change it later, if you like." Michelle lifted her hand, and a few questioning popups appeared on the screen.

Simone just tapped "Agree" repeatedly without bothering to read them, just like she did with any EULA. Maybe she was selling access to her immortal soul and credit cards. Whatever.

"OK, if everyone's all set... let's hit the road."

Michelle got onto the bike, kicking her leg across the body of the bike in a way that Simone would likely never be able to replicate. Michelle wiggled onto the bike seat and took hold of the handlebars. The camera switched over to a direct frontal view, with a chroma-key green-screen behind her. Dramatic start-up lights appeared on the screen, the kind that would be found at the start of a drag strip. A prerecorded voice of an excitable gentleman counted down from three. Once again, Simone could hear the 'engines' roaring in her mind.

All the lights turned green, and the voice yelled 'GO!'

And Michelle started pedaling at a slow, even rate, with a soft drum beat roughly matching her pace.

Simone was about to leave tread marks behind her, she was so amped... but staggered when Michelle started out so casually.

"I really need to ask the graphics team to make a slightly gentler intro." Michelle shook her head. "If you're the type who really needs to start fast and go until you pass out, that's fine. Me, I'm on a slower burn. Remember, you can change the music to keep up with YOUR pedaling rate rather than mine if you're watching live. On-demand, all the music is baked in."

Simone started to pedal away. So far... it wasn't so bad. She'd exercised for about forty seconds and was feeling good.

"Today, the ride will be about twelve virtual miles, if you keep pace with me."

Simone nearly stopped what she was doing. If she'd WALKED twelve miles, she'd be exhausted and also have no idea where she had wound up. Maybe cycling that far wouldn't so bad.

"All the newbies out there, don't be afraid!" Michelle insisted, as if she had read Simone's mind. "Those aren't the important measurements. Don't worry about the distance. Just give us the time and take it as hard as you like. Unlike a real road... we won't leave you behind."

Michelle's image shrunk down to the corner of the screen as the rest was filled with an image of a bike path cruising by with many other professional cyclists around her. This could have been a virtual recreation of all the bikers' positions in a digital space, like this was a giant video game with unwieldy and tiring controllers. But this appeared to just be stock footage of cycling.

At the very moment Simone tried to block out the rest of the world and pretend she was sailing down this lovely paved road... the ice maker in her fridge started to hum and broke her concentration. Whatever. This was also the first bike she'd ever dared sit on without a helmet, so there was likely nothing that could bridge that bit of dissonance. Of course, this bike was fixed firmly in place and would not rock back and forth, so there was no real jeopardy of falling.