Spin Class

So I finally returned my husband’s holey sweatpants and invested in a pair of yoga pants.  To celebrate, I signed up for a spin class.  I arrived with my daughter this evening, late as is our custom. 

We were woefully unprepared: We’d forgotten hand towels, of course.  And water bottles.  One of the students grinned at us, taking in our trendy yoga pants.  “You might want to invest in some thick bike shorts.”

I smiled.  I didn’t need bike shorts.  What was a spin class other than riding a stationary bike just a little bit faster than normal?

The instructor, a petite thing with maybe one percent body fat, helped us adjust our bikes and showed us the emergency brake.  I looked at V.  “Really,” I scoffed after the instructor dimmed the lights and started the music blasting.  “What would we need an emergency brake for on a stationary bike?”  We giggled. 

“Start cycling,” the instructor said.  She was awfully perky.  “Now arm circles.”

I looked at V.  “Are you kidding me?” I hissed. 

“Reverse direction.”

“No way.”

“One arm up.  Drop the other to the side.”

V’s eyes widened. 

After a torturous five minute warm up (Who knew you could do crunches on a stationary bike?), the real workout began. 

“Tighten the tension.”

I reached down and pretended to move the dial.

“A full turn.”  The instructor said, eyeballing me.  “Now stand for eight.”

I stood.

“Now sit for eight.”

I sat.

“Stand.”

I stood. 

“Use your core to pull up.  Your core!”

Now, I know that somewhere deep within my body there’s supposed to be a set of muscles—this  core all the fit people talk about—that I’m supposed to be using.  But somehow, after three children and thirty thousand cookies, I seem to have misplaced mine.

“Sit.”

I sat.  I looked at V.  I looked at the clock.  This was hell.

We went through the stand up, sit down, fight, fight, fight routine for about ten minutes, before the instructor came up with a new means of torture: Sprinting.

My trendy yoga pants slipped down on my hips.  I yanked them up.  I wondered where I could find my core.

V’s foot slipped out of its cage.  Round and round the pedal went, smacking her in the back of the foot with every turn: thunkety thunkety thunk.  “This isn’t fun,” she said.

“Hit the emergency brake!”  I yelled, pointing to the red dial.  “The brake!”    (V’s used to this kind of yelling from me: I’m teaching her how to drive.)

I slowed my bike, ostensibly to aid my daughter in distress, but the truth was this: I couldn’t go on. 

“Now stand and sprint!”

I sat.  I didn’t sprint.  I tried to slow my breathing.    

“Do what you can,” the instructor said, too loudly.

The rest of the class glanced over at me. 

I stood.  I sprinted. 

I tightened tension.  I loosened tension.  I stood.  I sat.  And every time I sat, I became painfully aware of how essential bike shorts are to this sort of thing.

“Now rest and hydrate.”  The instructor looked at V and me.  “Now you understand the importance of the water bottle.”

I reeled my tongue back in and tried to smile through gritted teeth.

Finally, mercifully, the class ended. 

We stretched and cleaned off our bikes and headed home.

“I feel like C3PO,” V said, as she headed in the door.

My toenails hurt.  My teeth hurt.  Even my hair follicles hurt.  The rest of me is just blissfully numb.

So, if I can manage to make it up the stairs, I’m headed off to bed.

Perhaps a cookie first.

And, hey, if any of you find my missing core?

Could you let me know before next week's class?