Previously on this blog I’ve pretended to live-tweet a visit to my OB-GYN, so you know I have no boundaries. Today I’m going to take you with me to spin class, which is just as unflattering and personal, but much less relaxing.*
(Also in case you are not up to date on gym euphemisms, “spin” is the cool way of saying “class for riding exercise bikes.”)
Class is starting. Overhead lights off, moody colored accent lights on, loud music begins pumping. It’s kind of like being in a disco, except that the burn is from lactic acid, not liquor.
(Obviously I know nothing about body chemistry, and reading the Wikipedia article on lactic acid didn’t clear things up for me. But the alliteration works, right? Also I know nothing about night life, including if anyone even uses the term “disco” any more.)
Feeling the burn, feeling the endorphins, feeling good.
…aaand, I’m done. We’re at minute 15 of 60. This is why I force myself to attend a class. Will not be the weakest link.
The instructor keeps referring to my bicycle seat as a “saddle.” If you think you’re going to distract me with Little House references, Michelle, you’re wrong!
Also she keeps telling us to stand up while we pedal. There is absolutely no way my legs will support me if I lift off of my “saddle.” I imagine myself falling to the floor after my legs give way beneath me.
Hmm, forgot my feet are strapped to the pedals. Must make that previous mental image much more awkward and injurious. If I fell, I’d definitely need an ambulance…
Oooh, where I would get to lay down on a stretcher. Tempting…
It’s such a pathetic feeling when I’m dying of thirst but can’t stop panting hard enough to close my lips around my water bottle.
I’m so thankful for the darkness of the room.
Made it to the halfway point. At this point I turn into Grumpy Cat:
“Kick it up two gears, we’re going up a hill!”
“Can I get a whoop-whoop!”
“Find your race pace!”
“Go for your new personal best!”
“Sprint to the finish!”
I am ambivalent about the helpfulness of watching the clock. It’s nice to check in once in a while just to make sure time is not actually standing still. But the minutes are moving by so slowly that to look back too often is de-motivating.
Contemplating the strange sensation of feeling sweaty in places that I didn’t know had sweat glands, like between my fingers and on the backs of my hands.
She is still commanding us to stand up, sit down. I’m way past the acceptance phase that I am Not Standing Up for anything, but I’m impressed that every other person in the room is following instructions, including several people who look decidedly out of shape. Because I always avoid activities for which I have no natural aptitude, I am never literally the worst person in the room at anything. The feeling is unusual and unpleasant.
She moves us into the next song. If you think you’re going to motivate me by playing retro-tastic, mid-90s Jock Jams, Michelle, well, you’re on to something this time.
Just 10 minutes left. Summoning my final stores of energy. This is for you, Dr. Pepper! This is for you, Blue Bell ice cream! I visualize all my squishy parts melting away like vanilla ice cream.
Mmm, ice cream.
We cool down to “Arms Wide Open” by Creed and all of the sudden I’m back in high school. Except that I never would have exerted this much energy in high school, because I had a great metabolism and didn’t have to.
Minute 599 of 600. I am invited to step off of my bike and follow along with some stretches. I comply, gingerly, and wobbily.
Just like that. The lights are back on, the mood music is off, and we’re not anonymous partiers in the bicycle-disco any more, we’re just a bunch of sweaty and exhausted people in a gym classroom.
Next week: same time, same place? You bet!
*I am aware that writing sentences in WordPress hours after the fact is neither “live” nor “tweeting.” Work with me, people.