SPINNING, at least as I practice it- alone, in my rec room- is boring.  Mind-numbingly, ennui-inducing, I'd-rather-have-a-root-canal, B-O-R-I-N-G.

But, when it's cold and wet and icy and icky outside, it's a necessary evil in my newly-reinvigorated quest to undo the insidious effects of a sedentary job and a lifestyle predicated on sloth and the minimum necessary exertion.  If I'm going to fail in this trip, it's NOT going to be because I took my ability to handle the physical demands for granted when I clearly should not have done.  I may still fail but, dammit, I'm going to give myself at least a shot at the title.

I've had a spin bike for well over a decade.  Over most of that time I've walked past it without giving a moment's thought to actually putting it to use.  Shame on me.  But now, I'm making a conscious effort to get to it, to engage my lazy backside and put out some sweat, burn calories, and generally up my game.

It's not one of those fancy new models that includes subscription-based access to an online network of like-minded individuals, led (or pushed) by some far-away persona with a toned and sculpted physique, perfect teeth, and not a hair out of place.  No indeed.  Although it was a leading-edge model in its time, and is still a perfectly solid and capable machine, the only outreach and connectivity it has is to my heart rate monitor's chest strap.  In all other respects it's a piece of dumb iron.  And I prefer that.

Nor do I wear the latest in fitness apparel, as the "get our bike and join the oh-so-upmarket crowd portrayed in our sleek and glossy advertisements then subscribe to our online service so we have an ongoing way to monetize our access to you" marketing materials show.  It's a nuance, a subtlety, but also clearly there by design and intent.  Send the message without dwelling on it or overtly calling attention to it.  Insidious.  Perfidious.

Instead I prefer to squeeze the last ounces of use from aged, stretched cycling shorts that have outlived the period of time I'm willing to wear them in public, but which have yet to entirely disassemble themselves into their various component molecules.  These shorts are complemented by a ragtag selection of tee shirts- most of which are old enough to vote and drink hard liquor in any state in the Union, some nearly old enough to have grandchildren without causing a scandal.  They have been collected as souvenirs from event rides long since gone the way of the dodo.

In order to stave off boredom-induced madness, I use an online streaming service to provide semi-random music.  Being a cheapskate I use only the basic (free) subscription level.  On some devices, such as my phone and computer, that means that after three or four tunes the stream is interrupted abruptly by a minute or so of jarring, annoying, irritating, advertising.  I accept that as the price of not paying for the service.

BUT.  But.  It turns out that, when I use my Blu-Ray player as the streaming device, this particular service suddenly becomes ad-free.  SHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!  Don't tell anyone!  It has not always been so, but at some point a while back I realized I wasn't getting advertisements pushed at me any longer, when using those devices.  WIN!

Finally, the point of all of this.  Sorry it took so long to work around to it.

The music I tend to stream is based on rhythm tracks of various types.  Many of them have Mideastern or south Asian influences and styles; some show influence of, or actually originate from, the Far East, while others radiate a distinctly New York City vibe.

Each track evokes an image, or a mood, or a setting, in my mind.  Those mental pictures help distract me from the mechanical slog of getting through X amount of time, or burning Y number of calories, or keeping my heart rate at or above Z beats a minute, or whatever random and arbitrary performance metric I have chosen as the day's goal.

As the stream goes on, I am transported from an urban milieu to being a solitary figure gradually working my way up a mountain road in the Karakorum or Hindu Kush, only to be transported a moment later to being headed for the last 300 meters of a time trial.  Poof!  I'm free-wheeling along a shaded lane in Hawaii.  Moments later, I'm going semi-transcendental in a temple in the Himalayas.

Those images stay with me, and are strongest when I close my eyes, which is the usual state of affairs while I am so engaged so that I don't focus and obsess zombie-like on every. passing. calorie. every. tenth. of. a. mile. every. revolution. of. the. crank. every.... tick.... of.... the.... clock.

What has changed in recent months is the shadow of myself, and my bike, that I see.  Used to be that when I closed my eyes I was invariably astride my road bike, which I dearly love.  Now, the image is one of a laden touring bike.  I can see the handlebar bag and panniers in front of me, feel their weight swaying with the bike as I rock back and forth on out-of-saddle stints.  I see handlebars filled with gadgets: phone mount, GPS, handlebar bag, cycle computer, camera mount.  I can feel the rear panniers behind my heels.

I kinda like the change.

What do you see when you're stuck inside on an exercise bike?