It’s Friday, gym night. As a mother of two, showing up involves many moving parts, not limited to picking up, dropping off, and making sure everyone’s fed just so I can walk out of the house. Typically, an on-time person, I recently fell into the habit of being two minutes late to the gym. My two minutes slowly evolved into three – four minutes, and, eventually, there were days when I was more than five minutes late.
For most people, this may be no big deal, but being on time is important to me. It means I respect the time of the person I’m meeting, and I’m committed to what I’m showing up for. It may be different for other people, but that’s what it means to me.
One night James (the instructor) expressed some frustration with a gaggle of us arriving midway into the warmup. As I worked out, with my guilt, I hatched a plan.
For every minute I arrived late, I would ride the assault bike for one minute. I need to put it out there that I hate the assault bike. If I was given a free pass to toss one piece of gym equipment out the window without criminal charges or reprisals, it would be the assault bike. If you’re not familiar, it’s a bike where the front “wheel” is a fan, and it’s powered by handles that you pump back and forth while you pedal. Twice the exercise, most definitely not twice the fun.
I offered my terms; James countered with 10 calories per minute that I was late – a consequence based on effort, not just passing time. Fair enough, I agreed.
Turns out avoiding the bike was a great motivator. I had more than a few close calls where I raced from my car and up the stairs, elevating my heartrate before my real exercise even started. Other women from my program became used to me whipping through the locker room to get onto the turf on time. We’ve had some laughs with my close calls, but I was always seconds ahead of the clock.
Until tonight.
Tonight, I was poised to be early. Recovering from the flu, I left early to ease myself into the gym. My workout is difficult on a good day, so time away from the gym makes it like starting over. I prepared for this. I’d be early. I did everything right.
About a quarter mile from the gym, traffic hit a standstill. It’ll be okay, I thought, as I counted the remaining time. My certainty turned into a solid maybe. Maybe I can pull it off, maybe I’ll be on time.
As time ticked away, my maybe turned into a solid no. I was about to be late. I left with plenty of time, yet I was going to be late. Every part of me was screaming that this was colossally unfair. Okay, maybe the language in my head was a little saltier.
I wanted to cry. It was going to be hard enough, and now the universe had conspired against me to make today the first day that I rode the punishment bike – The punishment I had created for myself.
I was tender. I raced in to the gym. “Oh no, you’re late,” one woman remarked.
“I know,” I said. “I’m going to be on that #$%& bike.”
I was irritable; it wasn’t fair. I was focused on how hard the workout is and the fact that I’d just added to it. I was mad at myself, the traffic and the world.
James met my eyes as I pouted onto the turf. I held my first three fingers up, one for each minute I was late. To his credit, James didn’t gloat.
My brain was still deep in blaming mode, and I had work to do. This wasn’t going to work. Pedal, I thought. Just shut up and pedal.
Sometimes, you can do everything “right,” and you still pay the price. What can you do about it? Just put your head down and pedal.
