It's Already Been Broughten

Every Sunday morning, bright and early, I steel myself for the class of torture, otherwise known as spinning. I make all the adjustments to the bike seat height, distance, the handlebars, the foot straps. I make sure to grab a towel for the inevitable and unstoppable flow of sweat, and grab another to wipe off the bike. I tighten the gel seat cover so it doesn't come off halfway through the jumps. I line my little ticket up for easy transfer to the instructor. I make sure my water bottle is filled to the very top and wish for the millionth time I had thought to bring two bottles. Cuz I'll be needing it. I sigh a resigned sigh.

I glare balefully at the instructor. She's not all there- her hair is disheveled, falling out of the ponytail, and she definitely didn't shower this morning. Her face is pale and drawn, puffy black circles under her eyes. Is she hungover? She is, isn't she? I see her burp and then swallow something down, making a terrible face. Now I'm resentful; there's no way I could show up to spinning hungover and survive to write about it.

I finish tightening everything up. Then, when I can't stall anymore, I strap myself in and prepare for pain. Even through the gel and foam padding, the seat feels worse than concrete studded with stones and glass. Some terrible disco music comes on and the instructor is yelling, "Feeeeel the buuuuuurn...!" over it. I close my eyes and think briefly about throwing my water bottle at her, but resist. If only I had brought two! My legs burn, my throat burns, my face and arms are hot. L and I are thinking of doing ridiculous things like wheelies and peg stands and hip hop moves on the stationary bikes and we're laughing through the pain.

To take my mind off the hill climb we've just started, I glance around and wonder how some of these women ended up here. I mean, was my gym having a Help the Homeless Get Fit Day? The giant fans whir and tilt, blowing some B.O. my way. I duck and cover. Could that lady really have saved up $80 a month in change? Seriously, she looks like she should be saving up her foodstamps, not frantically peddling to Captain Jack's Whistle Song. The soles of her dirty Keds are cracked with age and the foot pegs have to be digging directly into her non-socked foot. Her legs are as hairy as a lumberjack's, peeping out from hole-y Wal*Marts leggings. I'm getting a little woozy from her smell. I bury my face in my towel with the pretense of wiping sweat from my brow, but really more to get some filtered air in my lungs.

Then as quickly as it started, it's over. The delirium clears. I lived. I walk out actually feeling pretty awesome, other than a sore ass and a strong desire to escape the homeless woman's death smell that has followed me to the locker room. Oh, spinning. Both the bane of my existence and the path to aerobic fitness.