Personal Best

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

I had never won anything in my life. So, I treasured the glossy cardstock possessing my pass to one free class at EverGreen the adjustment felt so much better.

I picked up speed on the pedals and adjusted the resistance. The numbers changed on the dashboard in front of me. Okay, I was getting a handle on this.

The music switched to a club rap song that I thought had been cast into the fires of “Things We Regretted in 2007” along with skinny scarves and pageboy hats.

Beau ordered us to crank the resistance and stand up on the pedals. “Keep your hips back, booty over your seat, chest forward, and chin down.”

My body contorted to the odd game of Simon Says. I stumbled, catching myself on the handlebars.

“Feel the support from your core,” he added.

That correction was for me. He saw me falter and had to point it out. How did one feel support from their core? Brief looks at the copy-pasters in the mirror did not provide any concrete examples of the concept.

Then a Katy Perry song blared over the speakers, the inspirational one that made girl bosses sprout from the ground much like a Cabbage Patch doll. I wasn’t in Purgatory. I was in Hell. Thankfully, the resistance and RPM were at a perfectly medium territory. Maybe I could get the hang of this bike in Hell.

The chorus kicked in, the one about bringing out a person's inner arsonist.

Beau shouted into the mic, “You got over the hardest part by being here. Ask yourself—are you going to shine? Are you going to give it your all? I know you will. Push that resistance up by one or two and give me 105 to 120. Show me your fireworks, baby!”

Oh Jesus. He won the genetic lottery in looks, but his command of inspirational prose was enough to make whatever tinge of a clit boner I had shrivel back. But the crowd ate it up! Chirps of “Yeah!” and the ever-so-present “Woo!” accentuated the song’s beat. I picked up the pace and reached a peak. The numbers on the dashboard read 95. So, I had to do better .

I pushed and pushed. And huffed and huffed. The strands of my faded burgundy hair from my sloppy ponytail stuck to my sweat. My saliva tasted of iron. I got 101—nowhere near the 105 I needed to be at. Maybe these were vanity numbers. I glimpsed to the right of me. Nope. One among the throng of toned and serious was up to 120.

Beau announced, “Pull it back to an easy jog, eighty to one hundred.”

I was at an easy jog? I was sweaty, winded, and about ready to barf up any vital organs, and I was at an easy jog? No, I was behind.

And it hit like a dodgeball to the face. Tears pricked my eyes. My best wasn’t good enough. I was behind the real adults. I laid my arms across the handlebars and buried my face in them. I stopped pedaling. Another matching thwack marked my other calf. I’d walk out of here with twin bruises.

“If you need to stop, press your brake,” Beau said.

“I know,” I murmured into my arms.

Real adults didn’t treat a free class won in a schnapps-induced stupor as the golden ticket to their dreams. They scheduled workouts in their matching sets. They had been good to their cardiovascular systems so an easy jog was just that. They probably never got winded going up a flight of stairs. They didn’t peak in a career drowned in defeat. And they probably didn’t dramatically obsess over workout playlists nor associated a pop song as being the bane of their existence. But me? I was a sweaty emotional mess in an oversized possum T-shirt .

“Keep going. You’re worth it.” His voice was soft with encouragement, as if I were a baby taking its first step.

The speakers shuffled and crackled. I sensed that Beau had leaped off the bike and put his hand over the microphone. “Are you okay?”

I could be. I didn’t know the party I’d be attending was going to be a pity one. It didn’t have to be like this. I had two legs and a middle finger. I swung my leg over the seat, stood up, and checked the nose ring in my left nostril. “I’m fine.”

I walked out. The door drowned out the music. I kicked off the shoes and placed them on Frannie’s front desk and half wedged my feet into my street shoes. I hobbled into the parking lot with my shoes barely clinging to my feet.

I started my car and pulled out of the parking lot. I didn’t just quit. Fools continued to do something even when it was painful. Wise people—and now I psyched myself up to believe I was a part of the wise—knew when to pack it in.

Or so I told myself.