Vital, Incongruous

An interior decorator would weep. I realize that. I am well aware that it is incongruous.

When the movers came, they questioned, “Are you taking that?” Without hesitation, I replied, “Of course.”

Opening the entrance to my apartment, you might recognize most of the furnishings from the home I reluctantly left behind.

The white couch remains under the picture of Washington Square and it is still flanked by the two Ethan Allen end tables; one with a Portmellion pitcher of lavender and the other with the four gentian blue tiles from Kodiak.

The round table sits in the center of the room and two of the matching green chairs are perched close. The blue place mats and matching napkins are the ones we bought on our first trip to Bermuda, and the hurricane lamp in the center of the table came from Bloomingdales.

THEN, you see it. Large, looming without any cloak of beauty, my Schwinn Airdyne stationery bicycle. Initially, you might hope it is just there temporarily. A few new friends believed that, until it never went away.

Because they are friends, they haven’t asked questions. I think they have begun to accept my eccentricities. Although I don’t believe this treasured item falls into that category.

Rather it serves an important purpose in my life. Exercise, primarily, but indeed far more than that. When it occupied its own room in Massapequa, it rested directly in front of a TV. I was then able to enjoy the dual benefits of daily exercise along with an constant update on the news of the day.

My premises are now far too small for that. Instead I set the timer for the mandatory 45 minutes, and turn on my Ipad playlist.

The mechanical bike immediately transforms into a magic carpet restoring nuggets of long ago, each wrapped carefully and tucked into the gauze of yesterday.

Within minutes I hear Ezi0 Pinza singing “Some Enchanted Evening,” and for a brief poignant moment in space I return back to a dingy subway station in Brooklyn on a cold winter’s night; the precise moment when two paths first crossed and a lifetime together began.

Before much longer another song begins. “500 Miles” by The Brothers Four, and I almost see four teenagers, standing together with guitars as they sing the prophetic words All of them are now farther away in life as well as distance than the 500 Miles of the chorus they sang so well. Oh how, I wish they were closer. Oh how I wish their music had not ended.

Then I hear the legendary Frank, the very young Frank, who once stood on the stage of the Paramount theatre. It was the only day I had ever played truant from school, and the line outside the famed theatre wound around the entire city block. As the theatre darkened, a slight young man emerged on the stage, the famed Dorsey orchestra began to play “This Love of Mine.” and the young female audience erupted. The moment his magic voice sang out, a legend emerged.

The scheduled time is wending by quickly now. The dial on the bicycle indicates only 10 minutes left, and as it moves forward slowly, the music again changes.

The renowned rendition of Schubert’s “Ave Maria” by Placido Domingo returns me almost to the beginning of my yesterdays. When I first heard this beautiful song, I was six. It was the day of my First Holy Communion in the vast Cathedral of St. Paul the Apostle, and the beginning of a lifetime journey of faith.

I cannot deny keeping an exercise bike in a living room is incongruous,. However I also believe there are other words that more aptly describe this unusual decision by a pilgrim who now travels alone and relies on the solace of memory. Perhaps, vital, treasured or comforting is more appropriate.