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Pedaling like mad Monday in a cycling class I had resumed after abstaining because of a sprained wrist, I wondered: Why, just because I had been out for a month, does it feel like starting all over again?
While the tough-and-fit instructor and most of the class spun their two-wheelers way above the speed limit, I was going at a sea-turtle rate of about 15. I could barely breathe. I felt my face turning red—more out of effort than embarrassment, I think.
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