What was I thinking when I bought a rowing machine? I hardly use it at the gym. And where was I going to put the thing?

The year was 2021, a slightly better year than 2020, as COVID vaccines gave people hope. I continued to walk with my neighbor Denise and on my own but my sprints in the backyard became less frequent. The 24-Hour Fitness parking lot stayed empty. Hence, there was no yoga, Zumba or walking on the treadmill for me.

And stores ran out of bicycles and treadmills as people bought them to stay in shape or have some semblance of control over their health. On impulse, I bought the space-saving rowing machine from Hammacher Schlemmer. I received this email response after I placed my order.

"As the COVID-19 pandemic continues to disrupt the supply chain network, we're doing everything within our power to ensure orders are shipped as quickly as possible. However, despite our best efforts, shipping and delivery times may change unexpectedly — please check Order Status for the most current estimate of shipping time. Thank you for your patience and understanding."

The box containing my purchase arrived via FedEx then sat in the family room for a couple of months. After my husband assembled the rower, I tried it several times. "It works, it's good for your core," he said.

Too boring. When I rowed, I went nowhere. Today, the thing sits lonely behind the couch in the living room.

In 2021, I preferred Zoom meetings to meeting in person which meant a whole lot of sitting. I read somewhere that sitting is the new smoking.

When summer arrived with 80-degree temperatures and I was ready to be more active, I started riding my son's old bike, a Hoop D Mongoose with peeling orange paint. It's low; hence, I can reach the ground with my feet. The brakes work but being able to use my feet to stop offered a bit of comfort.

I learned to ride at 35 years old but my bike stayed unridden in the garage. More than twenty-five years later, I'm still a novice. When I rode my bike with Denise in 2020, I struggled to keep up with her. The saddle was too high. Crossing the street at a stop light, I would walk the bike.

"Mom, you're wobbly," my son said.

"You need more practice," my husband said.

With my son's Mongoose, I started riding solo, slowly becoming confident, perhaps too confident that I did something stupid. It was 80 degrees that day; I had ridden my bike for 45 minutes around Morse Park. Heading home I approached the gate towards Sorrentino Way, a two-way street, and thought I would practice my hand turn signal.

Raising my left hand, watching for traffic ahead, while keeping the bike steady with my right hand proved to be too much. In an instant, I landed on my palms and knees with a thud. Upon inspection, my palms were bruised, my left shoulder felt dislocated and I had a big gash on my right knee which swelled up the next day.

"Nobody uses, or understands, or knows hand signals anymore," said my husband.

Falling was the last thing I needed. A bone density scan several years ago revealed that my bones were brittle. "Stop falling from the bike now," my nurse friend Cymbie said.

My hopes of someday riding a bike through the French countryside quickly faded. Here was another adjustment needed in my life. Perhaps I need to ride my rowing machine.

~ Nida Spalding