Spinning Fiasco

These people have clearly not yet started the class.

3 years ago I went to a spin class for the first time and I vowed I would never go back. So you can imagine my surprise when I found myself  sitting on a tiny bicycle seat, unable to feel my legs, wishing for death to take me quickly. 

I don't know what sort of demon possessed me to make me enter that room yesterday but it left me alone and helpless about 10 minutes into a 60 minute class of sweaty, painful Hell. 

The instructor, Steve, started out nice enough. He welcomed me into the class. Helped me adjust my bike and told me that if I felt dizzy, or fatigued I could take a rest before rejoining them. But that nice, gentle Steve was replaced with boot camp, drill Sargent Steve. Every time he yelled "keep moving" or "all the way to the finish line" or "don't give up on me now" I imagined myself rebuffing his commands with a long series of hate filled expletives.

I especially loathed when he told us that in our next set our "rest" would be standing up on the bike (still pedaling, mind you). But really, is that even a rest? To me, a rest would be getting off your bike and taking a 5 minute nap on the floor. You might be thinking, gross, Emily you wouldn't want to take a nap on the floor of the spin room! But nay, I tell you, I would have. Right around minute 40 I would have gladly abandoned my bike for a nice sweaty, bacteria infested nap on the floor. 

By the time we got to minute 60 I was sure that when I dismounted my bike my legs would just cease to work completely. I imagined I would be like a baby deer just entering the world collapsing with every feeble, wobbly step.  I pictured Steve scraping my remains off the floor of the classroom and adding me to a pile of similar sad saps who didn't survive their first spin class. 

But, I mean, I'll probably go back next week.