“If you’re reading this and the left pedal clicks—tighten the crank bolt. You’re welcome. – S.”

Frustration bubbled. She skipped ahead.

Sarah found the knob. It was fused on like it had been welded by a vengeful god. She turned it. Nothing. She turned harder. Her knuckles went white. She considered swearing at it. Then she spotted the small diagram— “Turn counter-clockwise” —which she’d been doing wrong for the last four minutes.

She glanced at the floor. Screws. Bolts. A mysterious rubber washer. A spring that had launched itself across the room two days ago. She’d found it under the sofa, next to a stray hair tie and the ghost of a Dorito.

Sarah had never been the type to read manuals. She’d assembled three IKEA bookshelves using nothing but grit, a single Allen key, and the power of stubbornness. But the Davina McCall Exercise Bike—a sleek, purple-flecked machine she’d impulse-bought during a late-night wellness spiral—had broken her.

“Fine,” she muttered, yanking the manual from the box. It was thin. Reassuringly thin. The cover showed Davina herself, beaming, mid-cycle, hair defying gravity. Davina McCall’s Lean & Tone Exercise Bike – Owner’s Manual.

She worked through the rest of the manual slowly, not skipping, not guessing. Page by page, the bike came together. The resistance dial turned like butter. The display stopped blinking and showed 00:00 in steady, patient red.

The bike stood in her living room like a smug piece of modern art. Its digital display blinked 00:00 in an accusing red glow. The resistance dial wouldn’t budge past “gentle breeze.” And the left pedal made a sound like a haunted maraca every time she so much as looked at it.