I should probably put this on my bike blog but nobody reads that damn thing so you guys get to hear all about the insanity that was spinning last night. Because I'm a wuss who hates to ride outside when it's cold or dark (or both) I've been taking a spinning class three times a week. (for the uninitiated, spinning is an indoor group cycling class held in a dark room with loud music. I love it.)
The class I take on Monday and Wednesday starts at 5:30pm and I get off work at 5pm, so in order to get to the gym in time to actually claim a bike, I have to leave right at five. If I leave at 5:02pm the traffic leaving campus is impossible. I jet out the door at 5pm on the nose and drive hell-for-leather to get to the gym at 5:15pm, rush down to the cycling studio in my street clothes to (hopefully) triumphantly throw a towel over my favorite bike in the front row. I like to be right where the action is because sometimes I don't understand what the instructor is saying and I need a visual. I also don't really love looking at other people's sweaty butts, so there's that too.
Last night I did this whole routine but when I got in the studio my #1 bike was taken and my #2 bike was taken. Mother F. I finally chose a bike off to the side in the second row behind where my friend Michael was set up. Whatever, that works. I went to change my clothes, hit the bathroom, fill up my water bottle and was back in the room at 5:25pm, five minutes to spare!
Except, the instructor was a substitute and goddamn if she hadn't already turned the lights down and started the class. This is really not cool. I need lights to set up my bike and class starts at 5:30. FIVE THIRTY. I was not happy and was even less happy when she waved me in all, it's okay if you're late, come on in anyway. It's FIVE TWENTY FIVE, LADY. GOD.
I was all set to hate her, for real. But, I set up my bike anyway and got my ass in the saddle and was ready to deal with whatever she had to deal out. I was ready for her jelly. She was something too, with a pink baseball cap, lots of lip gloss and long squared-off french manicure stripper nails. To quote Michael, she was "ghettodivafabulous." That about covers it, I think.
Because she started class early I guess I missed her explanation of how she operated or maybe there wasn't one. Her system involved numbers. There was no warm up. There was no escape. It went like this:
OKAY! EIGHT! COME ON! GET UP! NOW EIGHT AND A HALF! TWO! CAN YOU FEEL IT! THREE! NINE! NINE AND A HALF! THREEEEE! HOVER. COME ON! NOW SEVEN. ONEEEEE!
Michael looked back at me, wide-eyed with glee, and I mouthed WHATTHEFUCK. Because, really, what the fuck. Not even WTF, I meant WHAT. THE. FUCK.
I finally figured out that the high numbers indicated tension on a scale of 1-10 (though in her case, really 7-10 because she never went below a 7) and the low numbers 1-3 were hand positions. Oh, okay then, crazy.
She was brutal. We spent most of the time out of the saddle and then she made us "climb" with one arm behind our back. I caught the eye of the girl next to me and we both cracked up because it was so ridiculous. That was when I started to enjoy myself because hey, what else could you do? Her music was straight up Public Middle School Early 80's Dance and how can you be all pissed off when you're jamming to Midnight Star, and Morris Day? I mean, you can't. You just can't stay mad. So, I decided to enjoy it and I was rewarded with Salt-n-Peppa. AWESOME.
I will forgive her the Pussycat Dolls because I can't imagine how she couldn't. It was that kind of class.
By the end most of us were completely sweaty and grinning, except for the people who walked out. Lightweights.