The Finish Line

Around noon, my feet start to get numb. My hands are glued to the handles. My clothes are wet from sweat, and my knees feel like they are about to pop out like champagne corks.

"You're almost there." said an automated voice through my headphones. "Ten thousand more cycles and you'll reach the finish line."

I looked up at the monitor to see if this was true. The simulated forest looked the same as I started, but the map on the far corner claimed I was halfway down the path. I must have missed the lake view about an hour ago, when I was staring down at the concrete floor, trying to keep my mental stability in check.

Usually, I didn't have this problem. After doing this for close to two years, I thought I had gotten the hang of it. The last time I felt this bad was when I joined the workforce.

"You know it's going to be tough, right?" one of my friends told me. "My brother worked in cycling, and he'd come back every night limbing like a zombie."

Another one of my friends, let's call him Tony, was a cycler before he got into Graphic Design. He told me the lows and highs of the profession, how he'd developed a solid work ethic and stead-fast attitude, yet confessed he would never go back to that field.

I heard dry wheezing behind me. I couldn't turn to see what the guy behind me was doing. Was he about to pass out? Was he just catching his breath? Or was the machine malfunctioning? I had no idea. I wished I could look back and see if he was okay. But I remembered the last guy who did that. Five seconds in and a supervisor storming in. They unstrapped the looker from the bike and took him to the offices. Never saw him after that. Honestly, for the longest time, I forgot why he was fired. Then I remembered my first day. I forgot who told me, probably the same person who fired the guy, but they said no one is allowed to break posture during the cycle. You can look wherever you want, so long as it's straight ahead.

Sometimes the managers will be nice and set you up diagonal from a female co-worker.

"So you have two things to look at, if you know what I mean," I remember one of them telling me.

I guess I didn't get on my boss's good side when I met him, cause the only people diagonal from me were a sixty-year-old man and a drywall. In fact, the only thing keeping me going was what I imagined. I'd come up with things to paint over the weekend, and when I was done with that, I'd think about stories to write. I had no desire to write before I worked there, but I figured since I spend so much time coming up with stories, why not remember some and jolt them down over the weekend. After that, I'd just think of random stuff. List off as many Simpson characters as I could, try to memorize all the countries in the world in a single stanza, or come up with revolutionary ideas that will no doubt unite the world and end all conflict.

"Kee it up! You're almost there." said the automated voice again. I looked up. Only a thousand more cycles to go. I clenched my grip on the handles and put peddle to the metal. Music would have made it better. We used to be able to listen to music, but some guy in corporate convinced the board it was counter-productive, so they prohibited them on the cycle floor. Now the only reason we wear headphones is to hear company updates and the automated voice calling out our goals.

"Congratulations! You made it!" cheered the fake voice, as I looked up at the screen to see my avatar cross a red finish line. Confetti showered the screen, and the bike stopped. I then leaped off the machine and beelined it to the break room. I approached the desk and asked for my phone.

"Did you clock out for lunch?" asked the woman behind the broken glass.

"Not yet, but I need to check my phone," I said. She rolled her eyes and slide a tray underneath the glass. Inside was my phone, as well as my casual clothes and sneakers. I grabbed my phone and checked my messages.

"We have accepted your submission and we are currently venting entries. This might take between two to three weeks."

Nah, that was an old message. What did Jack have to say? He told me he'd get into contact with someone who worked for the gallery.

"We have accepted your piece into the gallery," said Jack's message. A burst of energy came over me, and I looked at the clerk with her wrinkled eyes.

"Tell Matt, I quit." I proclaimed. She merely shrugged and went back to texting.

I didn't even go back for my lunch, nor changed out of the company uniform. I just stormed out of there. I feel sorry for the poor chap who'll take my bike, but at the very least, I wasn't the one on it anymore.

I looked back at the building. A horrible concrete monstrosity that cast a shadow on all the buildings in front of it. Wires dangled out of the top like messy hair, each cord attached to a different building. It kind of looked like Medusa if you squinted really hard.

I wondered whose house I was keeping energized? I did feel bad about that. I was told, if you're going to quit, make sure to do it at the end of your shift, that way some poor sucker doesn't lose power in the middle of something. I felt a powerful stinging sensation in my knees, causing me to forget my pity. I turned my back from the power plant and never looked back.