Russia
It is by riding a bicycle that you learn the contours of a country best, since you have to sweat up the hills and coast down them. -Ernest Hemmingway
Part Two: Bike!
But Pinky and her rigid pool rules were remnants of old Russia. New Russia is a whole different beast, as I discovered when a friend invited me to check out the private sports club where he was a member. Angry babushkas were not welcome here. Instead we were greeted by smiling, trim, young women who seemed genuinely happy to see us. They tried to accommodate every request. And they never yelled.
Members of the gym tended to be well-manicured women who got lots of calls on their cell phones: Russia’s beautiful people. Their hair looked better in aerobics class than mine did at my wedding. The locker room resembled a Victoria Secret catalogue shoot: matching lacy bra and panties seemed to be a prerequisite for club membership.
Most important for my purposes, Planet Fitness had a fully equipped cardio room, complete with stationary bikes. My swimming training was going reasonably well, but this was a triathlon, after all. And how else - when the city was buried in snow - could I bust a move on a bike?
St Petersburg’s river was frozen solid. The wide path along the riverbank, an attractive biking trail in other seasons, was now hidden under several feet of windswept snow. The embankment was deserted, except for the occasional dog walker, hidden by fur coat and hat. Yet here I was, pedaling a 60-minute endurance course, protected by a thick pane of glass that blocked out the howling wind and bitter cold.
On the day we visited Planet Fitness, my friend and I had the cardio room to ourselves, save a jacked trainer assisting a young woman on a Stairmaster. A dozen stationary bikes were lined up like racers awaiting the start gun. The sun shone through the giant windows overlooking the Neva River. The chrome on the bikes glistened in the bright winter light. Outside, icebreakers cut a path through the frozen river and glided past the ironclad battleship Aurora, whose mutinous sailors had started a revolution in 1917. Inside, the room pulsated to a techno beat. I admired the view from my perch atop my stationary bike and anticipated a long soak in the Jacuzzi.
After a while, my friend went to the weight room and left me to pedal it out against the blinking red dot on my bike’s digital display. The muscle-bound trainer seized the opportunity and came over to chat me up. "Can I please to meet with you?" I was never sure how to respond to this ubiquitous pick-up line. "You are foreign lady, no?"
I smiled. "You are Russian, yes?"
He was not discouraged. "I know you are foreign because I see your shoes," he explained, pointing out that we were both wearing New Balance sneakers. He was clearly impressed, as the brand was a rare find in Russia. “I buy them on Regent Street in London,” he boasted. “One hundred pounds.”
