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?


Labels: , ,

Writing in the Margins, Bursting at the Seams: Spin Class

Monday, February 20, 2012

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?


Labels: , ,

12 Comments:

At February 21, 2012 at 4:43 AM , Anonymous Leslicollins said...

Lol again. Could just see you yanking at your shorts, feet frantically spinning, left hand holding on for dear life!

 
At February 21, 2012 at 1:43 PM , Anonymous Katie687 said...

so funny - I have been thinking about starting a spinning class. I may have to re-think this plan.

 
At February 22, 2012 at 8:44 AM , Anonymous Annabelle said...

I have always been too chicken to try spinning -- I kind of suspected it was something like that!

 
At February 23, 2012 at 3:34 AM , Anonymous jaum said...

I must be getting old... Spinning to me is what you do to a top.... Based on your story, and the comments... I think I will put spinning on the back burner.

 
At February 23, 2012 at 1:47 PM , Anonymous kgwaite said...

I think I'd prefer the top, too.

 
At February 23, 2012 at 1:47 PM , Anonymous kgwaite said...

Not fun. But we'll be going back.

 
At February 23, 2012 at 1:48 PM , Anonymous kgwaite said...

Bought my padded bike seat the other day.

 
At February 23, 2012 at 1:49 PM , Anonymous kgwaite said...

For one frantic moment, I thought I was going to spin right over the handlebars - who thinks up this stuff?

 
At February 23, 2012 at 4:33 PM , Anonymous Leslicollins said...

Mr. and Mrs. Muscles.

 
At February 25, 2012 at 6:40 AM , Anonymous katieross83 said...

Whew! This tired me out just reading it...I can't imagine actually being there and living through it. You're a much braver woman than me. And isn't it funny how the perky, petite instructors are always the toughest?

 
At February 25, 2012 at 10:59 AM , Anonymous StoriesAndSweetPotatoes said...

This post is hysterical. Keep spinning. You pick it up quick and you'll be addicted.

 
At February 27, 2012 at 9:46 AM , Anonymous Cindy Brown said...

Okay, that made me laugh! Lordy, I knew these classes existed and heard horror stories. Thanks for the confirmation that it's not for me!

 

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