In my quest to be come the “less fat” white guy, the girlfriend convinced me to try spin class. Her mom, has been teaching it for like 45 years, and loves it, so today we decided to give it a shot. I’m not sure what they are trying to achieve by dimming the lights, but anything that sets the “mood” I’m pretty much down with. Our instructor, god bless her, was talking in a very throaty, smoky voice, and in the dimmed light, I have expected her to light a few candles and start charging me $2.99 a minute. Well she didn’t. Instead she shouted at me, while I pedalled on this torture device.
There I was, former college football player, getting absolutely owned by a bunch of chubby housewives in unforgiving spandex at 5am. I’m talking OWNED. CRUSHED. ANNIHILATED. Then the instructor (looking a lot like a McDonald’s drive thru operator, with that whole microphone-headset-may I take your order-thing) says, “Okay Guys! Let’s climb these hills!” Hills? What freaking hills? If you are referring to the mountains of cellulite on Susie Home-maker in front of me then, Yes, there are hills. “Out of the saddle!” Oh, it was imaginary hills. Its “creative-cardio” followed by nap time and coloring in the afternoons. You’ve got to be kidding me. 45 minutes later, our perky instructor isn’t even breathing heavy and I’m demolished. DE-MOL-ISHED.
Will I go back? Probably. But only because I’m a glutton for punishment.