Two Jews Versus a Peloton

It seemed like such a good idea at the time. Our gym has been closed for almost a year, and my husband Tom and I missed our days of being committed bike riders. Maybe the ads convinced me to do it: I kept seeing buff young people in terrific exercise outfits hauling ass in front of a screen while teachers prodded and nudged.

So we bought a Peloton. And then it went downhill from there.

Our first mistake: We didn’t go to a Peloton store to try it out; we just bought it on the phone. We both had to buy special shoes to clamp onto the pedals. I knew it was going to be high-tech and was nervous well before it arrived. Everybody we spoke to loved Peloton and relished the screen attachments — yoga sessions, online biking trips through New Zealand and other gorgeous spots, spinning classes and more. But I noticed that everybody we spoke to was a few decades younger than us.

When the nice man delivered the bike and set it up in the den, six weeks after we bought it — oh yes, they were back ordered; sales were booming — Tom was thrilled; I was anxious. We had to hook the special cleated shoes ($150 a pair) onto the pedals each time we got on the bike, which seemed like an impossible feat. The man helped me mount the bike by jerking my right leg around, and my funky right knee twisted in pain. I asked the man if we couldn’t just wear regular sneakers and avoid that improbable torture, but he was adamant and looked insulted. No, he insisted, the whole point was to be hooked onto this creature as if you are one being.

OK, I surrendered. I hated it already, and I hadn’t even pedaled yet. We had to use a mechanical lever to raise the seat (one height for Tom, another for me), move the seat forward and back (we both had different requirements) and change the handlebar height. Way too complex. After the delivery man left, frustrated with me for my ineptness and nervousness, I knew right then and there that I would never understand the Peloton beast and threatened Tom that I would never ride it. On the other hand, he was excited (he is called “Techno Tom” by friends, which explains his relationship with the Peloton up to this point). He made me promise to try it again and overcome my techno terror. I promised, although I really knew what the outcome would be.

I called our dear friends, Jon and Helene, and begged them to “talk to Tom, tell him we’re too old, tell him I’ll have to have a knee replacement, remind him we’re Jewish and klutzy.” They laughed, and Jon said, “I’ll tell him he’ll have to choose between you and the Peloton and see what he says.”

The next day, I woke up dreading my next session with the Peloton, but I had to go through with it for Tom. He’d called the Peloton support number and told them we were struggling with clamping our shoes onto the pedals without twisting our backs and knees. The helper was compassionate, according to Tom, and said we should buy something ominously called “cages,” which would hook permanently to the pedals and make it simple to secure our shoes. They would FedEx them to us, so we’d be able to use them the next day. Reprieve! I wouldn’t have to ride the monster for another day. But when the cages arrived, Techno Tom couldn’t figure out how to put them on the pedals, so we had to get a handy neighbor to do it.

Tom also ordered a gel seat from Amazon to overcome the extreme discomfort of the hard, tiny seat. It was scheduled to arrive in a few days. Another device to buy, another day of delay! Would the Peloton ever be complete?

Another device to buy, another day of delay! Would the Peloton ever be complete?

We decided we always needed to be in the room with each other when we rode the bike in case some emergency arose. So, the next day after the new pedals were installed (but before the new seat arrived), we went upstairs to the den. We each committed to ride the Peloton for 30 minutes. I went first, and Tom helped me secure the new pedals — not as simple as was promised, and I couldn’t do it myself. I asked him, “Does this mean you’ll always have to be with me when I get on the bike? That doesn’t make sense.” We didn’t have an answer.

We got the adjustments completed after many tries, and I touched the screen in order to bike through a Swiss town. It was yet another disappointment. I remembered actually biking through the Alps years ago — the beauty of the views, villages and water. The Peloton journey was through a grim, gray city, not a tree or lake in sight. I rode for about ten minutes, feeling sore, bored and uncomfortable the whole time. I gave up.

Tom then got on — after I helped him secure the damn pedals onto his shoes — and rode through New Zealand, a lovelier trip than my dreary Swiss jaunt. I sat on the couch and had started to read the day’s newspapers when he yelled, “the seat did something to my ass.” He extricated himself from the bike. His butt was rubbed raw, the skin broken and bleeding. That was the final straw for both of us. And the final ride.

That afternoon, Tom called Peloton to pick up the bike, exercising their 30-day return policy. We packed up all the extras we had bought: the pedal cages, the cleat shoes, the gel seat. I was profoundly relieved, especially because Tom was no longer infatuated with the Peloton and delighted to return it. Two days later, as they hauled it away, he shouted to me, “the Peloton has left the building.”

Over the weekend, we found a fitness equipment store that got fine reviews on Yelp, and we bought the kind of stationary bike we should have had all along — simple, comfortable, a seat with a back, no need for special shoes or clamps.

The only irony? The company, Precor, is owned by Peloton. The perfect bike should arrive in a few days. I’m excited. So is Techno Tom.

Marcia Seligson is a theatrical producer in Los Angeles and New York and a sometimes journalist. She is currently writing her memoirs.