The Victoria Athletic Club is a smallish, but nice fitness center underneath the Hotel Grand Pacific.

My first widowed travel decisions have left a lot to be desired. Trip two is turning out to be like cognitive behavioral therapy, real belly of the beast grief shit. Last night, on the way to the Fish Market for a halibut burger and very large fries, I kept thinking of all the restaurants that dotted the way that the GalPal and I ate at.

This morning, sitting atop a bike in the VAC, I see visions of her in the pool area. Then remember our lap swim routine where she’d start out swimming in the lane next to me, but then lay in wait under the lane lane waiting to see what she could grab as I went by. The second or third time, I’d pull up and say, “DUDE, STOP! I’m trying to workout!” And. She’d. Flash. Her. Smile. Which was her way of saying, “You know you like it.” No more VAC horseplay. No more smile. Ever.

Silver lining. At this rate, I’ll be done grieving in no time, and be fine. Right?

The bike I rode was parked right outside the glass encased squash court. While spinning, I watched a woman, guessing early 70s, do the most badass core routine, on a mat, on the empty squash court, I have ever seen. Pushups, every dead bug variation known to humankind, bridges, and on and on. She’d get up, walk out of the court, over to the pull up bar and rip off a bunch of pull ups. Grab a dumb bell, return, and get after it with more core exercises. This went on and on. I was so intrigued I wanted to chat her up, but there was no way, she was locked in! Each time she approached the door, I thought to myself, okay, this is it, she’s gonna make eye contact. Wrong.

I think to myself, it’s really not fair that a 70-something woman can be THAT fit when, what seems like yesterday, I was pushing 64 year old Lynn around the Plum St YMCA weight room in her wheelchair. Helping her on and off machines and giving her 2.5 pound dumbells to do bicep curls.

Fortunately, no one noticed the anonymous American cyclist tearing up on the bike. Which was good because crying would inevitably sink my application for citizenship. This is a country where people bodycheck one another against the boards. Routinely. I think the official national policy is, “No crybabies allowed.”