Spin Class: A Love Story

As the running beat of that one horrible techno song nobody likes blared through my eardrums, the overly-peppy, chipper extrovert of a spin instructor started talking. Very loudly, I might add, into her headset that was programmed ten decibels too high.

“OKAY GANG! LISTEN! I KNOW IT’S ONLY 5:30 AND THE SUN HASN’T COME UP YET…BUT, TODAY WE ARE GOING TO HAVE A GREAT SPIN CLASS!” She said.

I turned to the woman to the left of me, and she looked like her alarm just went off. That look everyone gets when one second they are deep in their REM cycle, and the next, BEEP BEEP BEEP invades their slumber for a rude, abrupt awakening.

The woman jolted her eyes towards me, realized how miserable I was on this rigid bike seat that was now protruding its way into crevices I’d rather not mention, and shot me a look as if to say, “I know how you’re feeling, kid. I don’t like techno either.”

Regardless, I was drug to this torture chamber at this ungodly hour, so I was determined to at least survive the 60 minutes of torture/exercise commonly known as “Spin Class.”

From the start, it was one of the most emasculating events I have ever experienced. Not only is the instructor four decades older than me, but she is cranking her quadriceps at a pace that would make Lance Armstrong envious. As I am cranking the bike’s resistance down three notches, she is screaming at me through an amplified microphone to “CRANK IT UP!” Because we just finished the “WARM UP!”

In fear of getting my head sawed off by her chiseled hamstrings, I elected to obey her caps-lock orders, but as soon as I turned the knob, it felt like one thousand daggers were inserted directly into my quadriceps’ muscle fibers. The burn was so excruciating, I was biting my lip in an effort to not combust right then and there.

Obviously struggling, I looked around the room to see if anyone else found this so-called “pedaling” to be as impossible as it was for me.

To my left, a 50-60-year-old male with thinning hair and a stained tan tank top…and exercise shorts that didn’t fit him as an adolescent. His hands are tucked behind his back, eyes closed and face tranquil as he seems to have created some bond between his pedal strokes and that stupid “Firefly” song by Owl City. I hate Owl City.

To my right, an adult female, a few years older than myself, bouncing up and down like a gosh darn bottle of sunshine. She smiled at me in a way that you smile at the big, slow kid in gym class who gets out first in dodgeball. I mustered up what I felt like was a smile back, but apparently was more of a grimace, or I am just very unfortunate looking, as she jolted her head backwards in fright, and reached for her Dutch Bros latte’ in the bike’s cupholder.

Sipping her sugary delight ever so slowly, her legs were creating an effortless tornado of pedal strokes, she turned her head to the side and just observed the pain I was going through.

Her face said to me, “This is the only thing I am going to eat the rest of the day. I weight 90 lbs, and am making you look like a helpless ant right now. And yes, this is a Peach Smoothie. With whipped cream. Enjoy your last 40 minutes alive.”
It was official, I was surrounded by people who were a lot better at this than I was, and I contemplated leaving then and there. 20 minutes into class, the instructor FINALLY asked me the least flattering question I have ever heard.

“HEY…HAVE YOU DONE THIS BEFORE?” she asked, barely audible above the terrifying German-Hardcore song, “Du Haste.”

“Guess,” I said, in-between breaths that were barely sending my brain enough oxygen to speak.

She took a good 5 seconds to scope out my form, check my alignment, and analyze my pace, before she came to the ridiculously obvious conclusion.

“Nope,” she said, with a wry smile, as she was undoubtedly planning how to make me terrified of bicycles for the rest of my life.

“Oh really? Did you guest-star in that Sherlock Holmes movie? Or was that inspired by your life? Yeah…hey…instructor lady, that is really AWESOME you were able to conclude that the kid in tears in the back row, with the Atlantic Ocean of sweat underneath his bicycle has never DONE THIS BEFORE. Awesome. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go bleed out my ears, because if I hear another T-Pain Techno Remix, I am going to kill myself.”

I muttered all of that in my head, but there was no way I could get out a complete sentence without passing out, so the most I could muster was, “Kay,” as I bowed my head, contemplating suicide.

To make matters worse, after this demeaning interaction, the instructor became ridiculously kind and encouraging, and before I knew it, I was actually pedaling without tearing every muscle fiber in my lower body. Before I knew it, she stopped playing Owl City and German Hardcore Rap, and the Atlantic Ocean of sweat beneath my feet resembled something more like the Mediterranean on a hot afternoon in August.

The sun started to come up, and the feeling in my legs returned briefly. In a matter of minutes, the endorphins kicked in, and for some insane, incomprehensible reason, a smile cracked on my face. Dutch Brothers girl fled for the bathroom, the old guy next to me opened his eyes for the first time all class, and that 12-year-old girl in the front that was making fun of me for almost falling off the stationary bike, looked a lot more friendly.

“GOOD JOB SHANE!” The instructor screamed, butchering my name.

“Thanks,” I said, in a voice that didn’t sound like I was drowning.

We finished the class with some hills and intervals that would make World War II seem pleasant, but when all was said and done, she handed out “Tangerine-Scented Moist Towels,” and gave everyone a hand-sanitizer-high-five, wishing us a great rest of our day. The twelve-year-old girl looked at me and said I “don’t suck as bad as I did at first,” and the old guy behind me with overly revealing cycling shorts was like, “hey hey…now we can eat the food at the fair this weekend!”

“Yeah,” I stood up, smelling like a mix of tangerine and cheese, and with every step I took, my shoes “squished” and “squashed” like I just jumped into a pool with all of my clothes on.

“Will you be back Shane?” Instructor lady asked.

“Never again, you terrible, terrible person. Thanks for the towel.” I thought in my mind.

“SURE!” I said in reality, wondering why anyone would ever go through his torture again. Only time will tell. And by time, I mean if I can walk within the next week, and if I get a peach smoothie before every class.