Pelotaur

She was delivered on August 24th, in the middle of our garage.

Slim, dark, about 135 pounds.

“She’s beautiful,” my husband Steve said, sniffling.

“I can’t believe she’s ours,” I sighed.

And just like that, we were the proud parents of a new Peloton.

I entered my info on the bicycle’s computer screen, along with my username: BikeBender. 

This was my new nickname after a slight mishap between a bike, a pole, and myself.

We’ll call it a love triangle.

My first class was a Sweat Steady Ride with Jess. 

It was the equivalent of riding your bike up Mount Everest.

“For the love of God, make…it…stop!” I panted.

We were 4 minutes in.

Jess rode effortlessly, as she shouted out encouragement to us riders.

“SpinMonster, Happy 100th!”

Are 100-year-olds doing this ride?

“CycleQueen, Congrats on your 500th!”

Are people from the Old Testament doing this ride?

Then it dawned on me, Jess was referring to the number of rides.

500 Rides?

I just wanted to make it through one.

“Turn up that resistance!” Jess instructed.

I don’t wanna.

“Increase that cadence!”

You can’t make me.

“Are you bringing YOUR BEST?” Jess shouted.

I pedaled faster.

Jess smiled and sparkled like Cinderella.

I huffed and puffed like the Big Bad Wolf.

Were we doing the same class?

The good news was I eventually finished the class and I did a GREAT JOB!

Says who?

Jess.

I was invigorated and ready to start my day.

Nothing could stop me now!

Except…

I wiggled my shoes back and forth in the clips.

Uh, oh.

I pushed down on my toe, up on my heel. 

Nothing.  

Side to side.

Okay, new plan. 

Instead of trying to get out of the clips, I would just unbuckle my shoes.

You didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to take off shoes.

Except these were not normal shoes. 

I pushed, I pulled, I twisted. 

It was like I had straightjackets on my feet.

Hey, I’m not crazy.

“Help, I’m stuck in my shoes!” I shouted to nobody. 

I was in my own personal escape room. 

“Can I have a hint, please?” I yelled.

I tried leaning sideways, hoping that momentum would propel me out of my shoes.

Instead, I dangled like a sweaty bat.

That was an hour ago.

So here I spin, alone in my garage, attached to my Peloton.

I’m like a centaur, but instead of half-horse, I’m half-bike.

Would that make me a Pelotaur?

I’m sure at some point, I will discover the secret button* that unlocks me from these diabolical shoes.

Until then, please send help.

Preferably, a rocket scientist.

*The button is next to the strap. You simply push it and then pull the strap through. Any moron could figure it out. Well, most morons.