There are frequently moments in my life when I do actually stop, but only to take in the chaos that surrounds me, the Lego minefields, the snack negotiations, the suspicious silence coming from the next room. It’s during these rare moments that I think (like any normal Mum who is overworked, overtired and highly strung), now obviously is the perfect time to climb an imaginary mountain on a stationary bike.
And so she straps in…
My spin bike sits in the corner of the living room like a loyal steed, ready to whisk me away to… well, nowhere. But I really don’t care, it’s my prized possession (obviously after the kids) and together with my hot pink water bottle and amazing playlist, my bike inspires the kind of determination usually reserved for people escaping zombies.
And so the pedalling starts. Slowly at first. Warming up. Feeling powerful. Feeling alive. Feeling—
“Muuuuuum, I need a drink”
Itching to increase the resistance and not because the instructor tells me to but rather to drown out the sound of snack requests and sibling warfare. I imagine climbing a hill. A steep one. A hill called Mount Not My Problem Right Now.
With burning legs, lungs in protest and a ponytail that whips dramatically in the breeze created entirely by my own desperation.
I am unstoppable.
Until the Kid appears directly beside me, holding a half-eaten banana, staring at whatever device his eyes are glued to and asking a question that absolutely cannot wait.
“Mum, what do you call a fish with no eye?”
Mid‑sprint, sweat flying and a heart rate monitor screaming. I am, in this moment, basically an Olympian. But sure, let’s talk about fish thing.
Offering a grunted and breathy response, the only one manageable whilst pedalling to basically power the national grid. The Kid nods, satisfied, and wanders off, leaving the banana on the floor for the dog to sniff.
Back to the climb.
I am scaling the Alps, even if I’m really not. The wind is crisp, the view is breathtaking. Thighs on fire, I am a warrior, a goddess of the static bike. A woman who has not had a hot cup of tea since 2013.
Then the Kid appears, again.
This time he’s crying because the Girl looked at him funny.
Increasing the resistance again and not because it helps, but in a sad attempt to channel the emotional energy of not screaming into something productive, climbing a hill so steep it defies physics. A hill called Please Just Let Me Have Ten Minutes.
Jelly legs are a thing, and a face the colour of a tomato that’s been personally offended is something that is actually achievable as I pedal with the intensity of someone trying to escape my responsibilities.
And yet — I am going absolutely nowhere.
The bike stays put. The living room stays messy. The kids continue to orbit like tiny, chaotic moons.
Then, somewhere between the imaginary summit and the real-life banana peel hits the realisation that I am not doing this to get somewhere. I am not chasing a destination. I am definitely not trying to win a race or conquer a mountain or even burn off the stress eating from earlier.
I do it because for twenty glorious, sweaty, ridiculous minutes I am not ‘Mum, the Provider of Snacks’, ‘Mum the Referee’ or even ‘Mum the Human Google’.
I am Mum who climbs mountains, spins ferociously, sprints to survive and can still answer bizarre questions about fish eyes.
Mum who can be exhausted and powerful at the same time.
Mum who can go nowhere and still end up feeling better when she reaches her imaginary destination all whilst the tiny entourage keeps life interesting
I may not travel an inch. But somehow, I always end up exactly where I need to be.