Chasing an angel

We learn from American literature that you can't go home again. But you can go back to spin class. On a Sunday where I didn't have to work, and it didn't snow, I find myself back at my favorite spin class, the Prudential Fitcorp, Sunday 10:30 am.

You have to sign up early, and if you want a bike that isn't jiggy, piggly wiggly, you have to get there early. As I arrived in the spacious studio, waiting for me was the bike with three towels draped over it, the bottle of Coke in the left cage, and the big bottle of water on the right. The seat was set high and aft, the handlebars low and forward.

This is where the angel sits,  the waif-like Olivier who rides like the wind and climbs like the mountain goats. He gets the hometown discount on the Assos clothing as he is a real honest to goodness European.

I have to pick through five bikes until I find one that works the way it should. The drive train on the first bike is extra crunchy. The pad on the second bike is wasted. The third bike, the handle bars can't be tightened because the plastic sleeve is wasted. Then I stumble across the bike that is just right. I move it around so I can be next to Olivier, who makes Coach Josh look like an elephant. He's about 118 pounds, sub 7% body fat, and he spins eff-ort-less-ly. 

It's different than every other spin class, and then on the last interval it's the same. As the Killers declare they've got soul but they're not soldiers, Olivier shows us what he has, what makes him different, and the sound of him going, the chain goes "zzzzzzzz" a bit faster, his breathing increases, it sounds like an explosion to me but to the rest of the people in class, the members of the general population, they have no idea what just happened, they have no idea what it takes or what it means, or what Olivier could do, or how difficult it would be to hang with him in the mountains.

When he goes, I go with him. I'm about 50 pounds heavier than Olivier, so by comparison I'm Jumbo Joe, Giant Joe, Big Joe, but I go anyway. The room is hot and the music is blaring and my heart rate is pinned and I can feel my breakfast coming up, oh shit, I think I'm going to puke, maybe into my towel, I don't have anything else, won't that be horrifying, but somehow I just barely keep it down and finish the effort wasted, spent, out, all of it out of me. 

Olivier looks like he could go for another four hours. Great climbers aren't made so much as they are born.