The thing the makers of Peloton, who we think are called “Peloton,” don’t disclose on a big sticker like they should is if we ride that stupid bike for months on end and still drink delicious, hazy IPAs from Oregon, Washington or (if really lucky) Vermont every night we still end up with the physique of a fat slob. Unless we’re one of those lucky people with the completely illogical discipline to eat small portions and not love beer to stay healthy as recommended by the World Health Assembly (WHO), American Medical Association (AMA), and, more dastardly, the National Fitness Professionals Association (NFPA), what with their suggestive
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