Bike Up Imaginary Hills

Waking up in Coritiba.  Spread the curtains and view other buildings.  It would appear that much of this housing stock was built out some twenty years ago in a big spurt of construction.  Functional high rises that house a few hundred people each, encircling my building.  I don’t need to sample the breakfast but I want to get to the gym. 

I’ve been spoiled by the gym that I usually go to.  The gym at my kids school in Beijing is outstanding, with pristine equipment, that I never have to wait to use.  This gym has equipment that is twenty-years old.  Someone is on the stair master.    There is only one.  Right, the bike machine then.  I fiddle, as one does, trying to get the resistance right.  No.  I do not want to bike up imaginary hills.  No, I don’t want a program of random variation.  Leave me alone. 

One feels a bit ridiculous on a bike machine, spinning along to nowhere.  There’s a mirror in front of me which amplifies the theatre of things.  Behind me a man and a woman, perhaps ten years younger than me are jogging away to nowhere.  There is a one lane pool off to the left which I try to concentrate on, so I am not drawn up in to the absorptive glare of Coritiba morning news. 

Later, in the evening we have Brazilian meat carved from endless skewers that arrive at our table in rapid succession.  We are late, but it is time now to head to the soccer stadium.  The local team Furacao (Hurricane) is battling some other squad.  The match isn’t particularly well attended but it doesn’t matter.  It’s a huge arena and we’re close enough to be able to taste the drama.  This, until I doze off and miss what was apparently a great goal.   

Wednesday, 3/20/19