The “George Clooney” of exercise bikes was found in thrift store
For months, since arriving in LaGrange, I have tried to find ways to keep busy and joined a gym for a few months, took Pilates classes for a few weeks, tried belly dancing and even Tai Chi crossed my mind. I thought about rejoining the gym so I could at least walk on the treadmill or something. I even bought the “Shake Weight” advertised on television infomercials (and if you follow that workout, oh, wow, what a burn!) But, that is just six minutes a day on your arms.
While training for a 5K race in the spring, I broke the top of my foot – one doctor called it a stress fracture, nothing to worry about, but a physician’s assistant and another doctor said, “It is broke, Becky, deal with it.”
The bone hasn’t healed correctly – no one’s fault but my own, so I have not been able to do much exercising.
And boy, the weather around here has been so crazy hot, so who wants to get outside and walk?
I was told to change my thought pattern – try swimming or riding an exercise bike.
Being that I am not a swimmer, I started searching for the right exercise bike.
Finding the right bike has been sort of like searching for the right pair of shoes (another thing I hate doing, shopping for shoes). For me, finding an exercise bike I was happy with has been sort of like finding the right date for the “prom.”
And, of course, then something always happened to keep me from following through on commitments to get fit and lose weight. I can’t blame all the weight gain on the fact that I don’t have a thyroid or had a hysterectomy or that I broke my foot. I just haven’t had the giddy-up to do it.
Kind of like my dating life … all the guys have been nice and all-round good guys, except one or two have caused a few questions, but not a one of them has been my “George Clooney.”
Sound familiar?
There have been some big ones, some fancy ones, ones that program how far you should ride, how fast and even will stop the bike after you have reached your programmed goal.
There are some with seats that have you lying back while you pedal and there are some that are climate controlled and others that play music while you ride.
After months of searching for just the right bike, I found my “George Clooney” by chance in a rusted, old blue Healthmaster 230 – proving true my favorite saying, ‘You can’t judge a book by its cover.’
I called Habitat ReStore before I left work Friday, and if they had any bikes. The gentleman who answered the phone said yeah, but it didn’t have “any bells and whistles.”
“Does it work?” I asked.
He took his phone to the bike, and tried the pedal.
“The pedals work,” he said.
“How much?”
He told me $5 and I said OK.
All sorts of images came through my head and I decided that maybe it wasn’t worth the trip to check it out.
On Saturday morning, I woke up thinking about the bike and a chocolate-covered doughnut. The bike won out.
When I arrived at the store, I went straight for the exercise equipment.
It sat quietly, overshadowed by the bigger and fancier models. No one seemed to pay attention to it. Why would they? It was small, rusted, and offered no bells and whistles.
In fact, in a world where technology reigns and automation is king, the Healthmaster 230 exercise bike, operating simply on manual power – meaning feet pedaling and a simple speedometer attached to the bike – would be considered obsolete.
The bike was small, and most people, even myself, would turn up their noses at the sight of it, and toss it in the trash can.
I bought it. That was the quickest amount of time I spent in a store – three minutes – and came out with a purchase that big. I carried it out to the car, wondering how I was going to get it home.
I opened the trunk, and was struggling, when a kind man walking on the other side of the street asked, “Do you need some help?”
My first thought was to offer him the bike, but I shook my head, “No, I have it, but thank you.”
Finally, somehow, the bike fit in the trunk, and off we went for home.
Sitting it up in the carport, I thought I could paint over the rust, buy a new seat cover and replace the handle covers – all covered with rust, and old age dust and dirt.
So I called my dad for advice on how to fix it up and what to paint it with. I told him it was just a simple bike with no bells and whistles, probably made the year I was born.
“If you paint it, what difference will it make to what you need to do with it?”
How come dads are always right?
Mmm. Good analogy to use for future object lessons though.
And so it goes, and now, that I have my “giddy-up,” what to do with it?
Ride, Becky, ride.
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