The furnace is squealing. Not that I hear it. Not here, in my office, on the trainer.
But I feel it.
From the very first set of repeats, I want to stop or, at least, to shift to an easier gear and soft-pedal. I glance at Liz on my left, to Dave on my right, and keep going. Peer pressure, guilt or something indescribable shames me into continuing, as if the workout isn’t hard and I’m not tired.
It’s not a physical thing so much as a mental one. The sick furnace in the back of my mind — this particular beast an aging contraption literally held together by duct tape and a few well-placed screws. Local Heating Guy shook his head and lowered his eyes when he patched it up nearly a year ago. The fix was intended to suffice to the end of last winter. He spoke of the machine with a mix of ridicule and reverence, suggesting it belonged behind velvet cords in a museum, and declaring he would gladly install a new heating system. I told Guy I’d think about it, all the while knowing it wasn’t financially feasible, and hoping my furnace would last another year.
–
The first set is always the hardest. I’m already in trouble — my heart rate too high, cadence too low. The second set is shorter, starts to come easier. Having given up thoughts of quitting, I muddle through the workout as best I can. Concentrating then, I loosen my shoulders, drop my elbows, go into a brook-trout look, eyes unfocused, jaw slack, face relaxed. And it works, even if briefly.
–
The problems begin nearly from the start this year. At first, the furnace’s nifty little explosion of LP gas just knocked the door off its lower lip upon ignition. After a while, however, it began to blow the door across the basement. Burners, the last thing fixed by Guy, were the culprits again, refusing to light, allowing fumes to build up inside that big metal box, then sparking to a thunderous blast.
It was still autumn. Below-average temps brought the heating season in early. A call to Guy to inquire about replacement burners yielded a response that parts were hard to come by and outrageously expensive, and that he wanted to talk to me about another option, according to his message left on my answering machine. I never called back, figuring he still wanted to sell me a new furnace.
Now I’m thinking I might not have a choice.
But what do you do when you don’t have the money?
–
It’s a rich man’s sport, cycling. And, I’m not a rich man.
I measure the costs of the hobby not so much in terms of my income; rather, it’s the outlay from other expenses that serves as my yardstick. My winter riding tights cost as much as a single vet visit for my cat, Xero. The bill I received several years ago at the end of a week-long septic project was in the ballpark of any new road bike I would look at today.
As dearly as I love the sport, as much as I need my bike, the cost of cycling seems irrational. Yet even now, riding the trainer on a bitterly cold and snowy day, any expense can be justified. Here I find escape.
The furnace is still there, howling like a sick cat. Yet as much as it affects my mood, my work, my workout, the wailing fades away behind the buzz of tires, the rhythm of my breathing, the whirl of fans, the chatter of the training video.
–
The third set is the easiest of all. The fourth finally begins to wear on me. I’m tired and hot. My quads complain. But, I’m glad I didn’t give in at the start. I can forget about the furnace — for now, at least — allowing myself at this moment to no longer be the keeper of the checkbook, but to be a cyclist, and, maybe even an athlete again.
In the end I turn off my Garmin, eject the Spinervals DVD and remove my bike from the trainer. It’s still snowing. The wind continues to bite. In the house, no doubt, the furnace is running. Still squealing. Demanding my attention. Just then the phone rings. It’s Guy.
Trainer/road bike: 25.05 miles
