Seventeenth century philosopher Rene Descartes was on to something when he noticed that merely having thoughts was enough to verify one’s own existence. That said, he was dead wrong. What he failed to consider was that unless you’re having those thoughts while crushing a ninety-minute Peloton group live ride, those thoughts are meaningless bullshit.
Lazily floating through life isn’t “existence.” Existing is squeezing oneself head to toe in overpriced spandex, pedaling furiously to pre-recorded workout classes while alone in your living room, and then acting smug as fuck to everyone at the grocery store whose cheeks are not flush with post-workout fatigue.
“But I love and care for and provide for my family!” you argue fecklessly, wearing clothes that aren’t even drenched in sweat. If I were you, I’d have to remove every single mirror from my house because I can’t imagine the thought of having to look at the reflection of such an unmotivated slob.
“But I work out at the gym,” you claim meagerly. Please. You might gym. You do not Peloton. You do not understand what it means to be fully alive, watching a digital screen, hanging out with your virtual “classmates,” ripping to shreds every muscle fiber in your quads until your grundel aches from the less-than-ergonomic seat and your body reeks with the stink of accomplishment.
Or maybe what reeks is the grundel sweat. But I digress.
To exist is to Peloton – to use your bones and skin and flesh to exert oneself into exhaustion while Kaya or Chase shout inspirational platitudes at you. So don’t even talk to me about “being” unless you understand the existential burden of riding a bike that does not move like your life depends on it.
Because, indeed, one’s life, one’s very concept of existing, does depend on it. As 2Pac said, “ride or die.” Clip in or get the fuck out.
I Peloton, therefore I am.
