This is a secret: sometimes I am glad when Henry is gone. Sometimes I enjoy being alone. Sometimes I walk through the house late at night and I shiver with the pleasure of not talking, not touching, just walking, or sitting, or taking a bath. Sometimes I lie on the living room floor and listen to Fleetwood Mac, the Bangles, the B-52’s, the Eagles, bands Henry can’t stand. Sometimes I go for long walks with Alba and I don’t leave a note saying where I am.
- Claire from The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger
I finally finished reading The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger late last night. It had me up late desperately clinging to the pages of the book as I moved closer to the inevitable end. It’s been a long time since I’ve managed to get engrossed in a book, and even longer since I’ve been moved so deeply by the words on a page. There is something about the characters in this book which touched me deeply. I felt their pain, their loss, their fear, their loneliness. But I also felt their love, their passion, their hope, their beauty. But I was oddly disturbed this morning to discover that the book is being made into a film...
So I didn’t get much sleep after finishing the book as I had to leave the house just after 5am this morning to get to spin class. I was thinking about the madness of spin (Peloton) class the other day. You have to get there for the gym opening at 5.45am in order to claim a bike in time for the class which starts at 6:05am. So when I’m staying at my parents then, well, I have to leave just after 5am. Madness! Plus the class itself is crazy. Crammed into a tiny, darkened room filled with about 30 of these stationary bikes we gasp for air, sweating like anything despite (or perhaps because of) the tiny open windows and 2 fans going at full throttle. Our instructor sits up the front on his bike barking out orders (his microphone has been broken the last couple of times) and instructing us to “add more dial” (read: increase resistance and therefore pain) and to “pick up that cadence” (read: speed up that peddling). He has to shout to be heard above the thumping music blasting out of the stereo even when he’s got a microphone. All the while we are grabbing at our towels to wipe the sweat away and cursing the discomfort of those bloody bike seats (and I’m trying to work out how many more tracks until it’s over!). We battle our own imaginary hills and sprint race against invisible opponents as if it’s life or death. So why do I keep coming back? It’s bloody addictive, that’s why!