Singing at the Health Club

the evil sort of stationary bike I ride

At the health club (where I drag my unwilling behind most every day) I've noticed lately that there are a couple of fellow-sufferers who sing when they work out. (Both wear earbuds, so perhaps they're not aware that they're performing in public?)

One sometimes rides the exercise bike next to me (or, if she's living dangerously, she rides the other bike, the one I prefer--which is borderline madness and damn close to suicidal--not that I'm territorial, mind you).

Another (also a woman--just a coincidence?) sometimes walks laps at the same time I do (though she's, of course, nowhere near capable of maintaining the Olympic-quality brisk pace I am). She's not as loud as the Biker-Singer, but loud enough that I can hear her, oh, a dozen feet ahead of me or so--before, of course, I zoom by her with male disdain.

I don't know the songs they're singing. I quit listening to popular music back in the early 1970s when our son arrived (1972), and I suddenly discovered I had no extra time for anything; even my ears needed to be focused on what this Mysterious Stranger--this wordless Mysterious Stranger--wanted of me, 24/7. Demanded of me (and, of course, Joyce.)

And then I just never got back into the habit. I've got some earbuds. I've used them maybe once or twice, listening to things on my iPad in the coffee shop, not wanting to annoy those nearby.

I imagine there are other people around the club who are singing along with their iWhatevers as they exercise, but, so far, I've noticed just these two. I hope they go away. Soon. I've heard better voices in my own shower.

That sounds unkind, I know, but Honesty Is the Best Policy--except, of course, when it applies to one's self.

As I've written here before, I do mutter (inaudibly?) when I bike and walk at the club. Discreetly, I work my way each day through that day's set of poems I've memorized. I have in my head (to various degrees of stability) some 225 poems now, and I have certain sets I rehearse on certain days so that they don't wing away more quickly than they want to. Some are very short (William Carlos Williams' "The Red Wheelbarrow"); some, very long (Edna St. Vincent Millay's "Renascence").

But--I don't think?!!?--my Fellow Bikers and Walkers can hear me. Oh, they may see my lips moving (a sign of dotage? they no doubt think), but I don't let them hear the glories of "Dover Beach" or "Ulysses" or "Mending Wall" or "To be or not to be" or ...

 I do not smudge the glory of their bike rides and walks with ill-pitched versions of popular songs.

On the other hand, I need to lighten up. Riding a stationary bike sucks, and if it helps to sing audibly (or even very audibly), well, hell, just go for it! Anything that speeds up that damn ride ...