Riding the Misery Machine: How Not Looking Became My Superpower

Sixteen days ago, bloated at a mortifying 247 pounds, I decided enough was enough.
On April 10th, I gave my calorie binges the boot, hacking my intake down to around 2,400 calories a day while shoving 160 grams of protein down my gullet like a man training for a hostage rescue mission.
I also added a sixth workout to my weekly five kettlebell sessions: a brutal appointment with what I now lovingly call the Misery Machine.

What’s the Misery Machine, you ask?
It’s the Schwinn Airdyne—a sadistic stationary bike crossed with a medieval torture rack.
It has pedals for your legs and levers for your arms, ensuring that no muscle group escapes unscathed. Your pecs, shoulders, triceps, forearms, glutes, quads—all dragged into the inferno.
And because Schwinn engineers apparently hate human joy, the faster you go, the more resistance it throws at you.
It’s not a workout; it’s a trial by fire.

My first two rides were pathetic: 59 minutes of flailing, barely burning 600 calories.
Today, though, I hit 706 calories in the same time—an improvement, and not just physically.

Part of the success came from a psychological gambit: don’t look at the odometer.
Staring at the screen, counting every miserable calorie and every sadistic second, makes the workout feel endless, like some gym-rat version of waterboarding.
So today, I swore: I will not look.
My secret weapon would be ignorance. Eyes forward. Mind blank. Focus on breathing, moving, surviving.

Did it work?
Mostly.
I cheated about six times, sneaking guilty glances at the odometer—still, better than the constant obsessive checking that turns my bike rides into psychological horror shows reminiscent of my endless, soul-crushing drives up the I-5 from Los Angeles to San Francisco.

But the real goal—the Holy Grail—is zero looks.
Like Lot’s wife, ordered not to turn back lest she turn into a pillar of salt, I know: if I glance back at the numbers, I’ll be punished with despair.

Today, post-shower, the scale gave me a small nod: 239 pounds.
Only 39 pounds to go until I reclaim something resembling dignity.

Lucky me.
Nothing but time, pain, and the Misery Machine standing between me and the man I intend to be.