Jane Fonda, leggings, tights and unitards included, always seemed very happy to me when I was a young kid. And the feeling spread; my sister and I eagerly jumping-jacked our way into hysteria alongside our earnest mother’s exercises. I don’t recall being booted from these sessions, but now I wonder.
Having infrequently journeyed into the television accompanied land of in-home sweating, it’s taken me a while to comprehend the passion required for indoors calorie-burning. I experimented with stationary bike riding as I did with gym ratting; copies of literary magazines saw me through the haze of robotic movements, bleak vistas and smelly air.
About the only time I enjoyed a gym came in Brazil, where the building walls opened views to the ocean, and people glowed with a slightly different version of self-aggrandizement, the frolicking beach life permeating the gym imperceptibly.
The Lost River Range, Pioneer Mountains, Boulder and White Cloud Mountains, and many unnamed slightly smaller hills eliminated the need for indoor activity in Idaho. Such natural splendor moved my running, biking and Nordic skiing well beyond the daily grind into a continuous spiritual experience of our amazing world.
Entering the cold months in Pennsylvania now, I find myself sifting through the various experiences with ‘exercise’ I’ve enjoyed, endured, explored, etc. Then, I realized I needed to get the mail. Onto the bike and into the 37 degrees, sideways rain and ferociously gusting wind I pedaled.
The Chatham Post Office sits just 2 miles away, and part of our decision to obtain such a mail outlet versus sign up for home delivery was based on our intentions to NOT drive every day. The path to the post is also a relatively safe bike route. So off I went in my layers, and after pushing up the hills on the way to town, I was property heated up. The Post Office clerk exclaimed at my ride as I panted hello, then chuckled in understanding at my wet derriere.
I grabbed the box of ammo Poppa Newc sent along for the deer rifle (you can send that through the MAIL!), bank statements and miscellany, then hopped back on the bike to return. The wind confronted me, pushed me to an absolute crawl, then relented and let me pass. The walnuts from the road-side trees jostled my balance, the last hill up the grassy knoll hurt my sore-from-horse-riding-thighs.
And then I made it home. Hot, having moved my body on a day as good as any to cash in on YMCA membership, I relished the ride.
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