You know there’s something off when you’re riding indoors in August, but last Friday it seemed unavoidable. It was a wet, gray day and as I got drenched on my trips back and forth between my car-closet for more and more layers, I realized that the prospect of fighting my way through an hour and a half of 40 degree rain was not exactly giving me butterflies. So I stripped off all the layers, made a new itunes playlist, and assembled the least-awesome thing I own; my trainer.
This hellish device goes by the monicker “Travel Trac Century V,” a series of words which, as far as I can tell, are each total lies in their own way. Think about it-
“travel” I suppose has to do with the fact that you can travel with it, but while using it you cover exactly zero distance. Unless you break out of it and ride into the wall, which has happened. More than once.
“Trac” isn’t even a real word, but if it was, I think it would imply some sort of relation to track riding, which is stupid.
“Century” is the one I get, because it seems to mean that whenever you’re using the apparatus it will feel like you’ve been riding for a hundred miles instead of the six you were able to complete before gnawing off your own arm out of boredom.
“V” I love the roman numeral. Like the thing has some sort of proud lineage or a lot of old money stored away in Switzerland. Or a wardrobe full of pastel-colored polos. a) I know it’s just about the worst and cheapest trainer you can find out there. b) If it had money stored away, it would have been used up by now in my attempt to get to worlds, and c) You can’t even fit a polo on it. It’s got a really awkward body type.
And that just about sums up my hatred of trainers. I rode for exactly one hour, and the instant I stopped pedaling the sun burst through the clouds. The rest of the day was about 70 degrees with blue skies and dry pavement.