The Rules Didn’t Apply
Airports, boats, and why a pod of whales felt like the only guidance worth following.
As the shutdown dragged on, people started to crack. The optimism of banana bread and Zoom happy hours gave way to sourdough fatigue and questionable coping mechanisms. Five years later, you can still see the fallout. Some people launched businesses. Others launched TikTok careers. Some discovered fitness; others discovered the joy of not doing fitness. Couples either grew closer… or started Googling divorce lawyers.
By the time we were finally allowed to welcome riders back, the changes were glaring. Amazing how three months can reshape everything.
The hardest stretch was late spring. We’d been told June 1st was the finish line, so in early May I went into planning overdrive. I was on endless calls with studio owners across the country, rearranging bikes with a tape measure, hoarding Lysol like it was bitcoin. Thanks to PPP, I was able to bring back two full-time employees, and we were scrubbing, painting, prepping like our lives depended on it. The problem? No guidance. Zero. Nada. Everyone was allowed to have opinions about how gyms should reopen — except gym owners.
Suddenly, we were the villains. I had walked away from a successful career to help people get healthier, sweatier, and maybe even happier — and suddenly I was the problem. My desire to reopen was deemed politically incorrect, insensitive to those with compromised immune systems, and, the most upsetting, SELFISH. (Yes, I saved all the accusatory DMs.) Let’s be clear: we needed to reopen to keep Jibe alive, but I also saw what was happening. Friends, family, riders — lonely, frustrated, unraveling. I knew I could help. Fitness is movement, yes, but it’s also therapy. It’s community. Five years later, I’ll still say it: fitness is essential. Human connection is essential. Smiling, laughing, moving is essential.
Then came May 16th. The governor announced gyms would remain closed indefinitely. No new date. No plan. Just: “Not safe.” I crumbled, then I took action where i could: i wrote a letter. By that point, 17 other states had already reopened, dozens more were ready for June 1st. Maine? We were stuck in detention with no release date.
That kind of frustration drives people to bad decisions. Coping mechanisms. Habits. If I hadn’t been so busy, I might’ve started drinking more too. But I was on the hamster wheel of on-demand classes, PPE protocols, HVAC upgrades, and social distancing charts. No time for a nervous breakdown. Not everyone was so lucky.
Meanwhile, liquor stores and smoke shops? Essential. Breweries offering curbside growlers like they were lattes. Instagram was one long highlight reel of “endless happy hours” and “is it too early for a cocktail?” Spoiler: apparently, it was never too early.
While I was bleaching.. well.. everything, High Roller had shifted to a shinier project: Nautical Wheeler. There was just one problem: the boat was in Florida. Remember when you weren’t supposed to cross state lines? Apparently that didn’t apply to truckers… or to husbands with boats. He drove to Florida, met a buddy along the way, and started bringing the boat north. I was convinced to join in Charleston, and honestly, at that point, four days on a boat sounded more productive than four more weeks in purgatory.
Flying to Charleston was surreal. First shock: flights still existed. Second: airports were packed. Third: I was sitting next to someone on the plane. Social distancing, apparently, was optional at 30,000 feet. People were chatting like they’d been on spring break all along. I connected flights at Washington Reagan, surrounded by senators. Turns out, he only thing truly bipartisan in May 2020 was ignoring the six-foot rule. Meanwhile, I’d been holed up in Maine thinking the whole world was still frozen.
And Charleston? Alive. Restaurants open outside. Retail stores open inside. King Street busy. Meanwhile, Portland was padlocked. That’s when it hit me: there were no rules. Or rather, every state had its own rules. The playing field was never even.
We cruised north in record time — four days — mostly because we weren’t allowed off the docks when we tied up for the night. In Massachusetts, we couldn’t even step ON the dock to tie our lines. But somewhere offshore, a pod of five humpback whales surfaced. My whole life I’d been looking for whales on the boat, and there they were — the best sighting I’ve ever had. I took it as a sign: even if things were hard now, something good was ahead.
Two days later, we got the call: June 7th, gyms could reopen. Outdoors only, but still. A ray of sunshine, a glimmer of hope, a whale’s tale in a sea of gray.
