What with needing to lose 32 pounds as my first weight loss goal, I decided that I needed to get moving. Literally. Since I enjoy exercise classes and have some free time Friday nights, spinning seemed like a logical choice.
Passes for spinning are distributed at 6:30.
By six twenty nine, I was prepared and at the desk.
Student ID: Check.
Exercise outfit: Check.
Clean sneakers: Check.
Padded seat: Check.
For those of you who do not know what spinning is: it is hell on a stationary bike. You sit on a stationary bike and follow along with what the instructor says, whether she says “Stand and sprint” or “sit and recover.” I had not ridden a bike (stationary or otherwise) for any significant length of time in years. I figured it was going to be unpleasant. My friend was no help at all, talking about how intense it was going to be and how we were going to die… Thanks, Krys. Just the boost I needed to get me through the door.
“So, who here has never done spinning before?” The instructor looked quite fit. Actually… everyone in the room looked either fit or borderline anorexic. I am the first (but not the only) to raise my hand, and she comes over to help me set my bike up.
I couldn't help but notice that I’m the only one who brought a pad for my seat. It made me feel less hardcore. I mean, being 320 pounds and doing spinning is hardcore, right? But the seat seems to say “I can’t keep up with everyone here. I’m not as intense as you.”
When everyone was settled, she started the music. We hadn't started yet and my butt already hurt. It was not promising. I still had fifty five minutes to go— wait, what did she say? Did she ask if anyone would mind if we only went for forty five minutes? It was brilliant! The incredibly slender woman next to me complained about that being less calories she could drink that night, but I’d have agreed to anything that would have gotten me off of that instrument of torture sooner.
Ten minutes in and I wasn’t sure whether sitting or standing was worse. Sitting hurt my behind, and standing hurt everything else. I allowed myself to get off of the bike three times, giving myself a short break during which I marched in place.
Just because I couldn’t follow along doesn’t mean I let myself relax. Each time I got off I desperately wanted to walk out of the room. I didn’t, though. People would have seen. Worse, I would have been stuck with the knowledge I quit.
When all was said and done, my butt cheeks feel as though I sat atop a flight of roughly carpeted stairs and slid down them in a thong, then straddled a piece of splintered wood. My toes were numb and my feet were cramped.
I told myself I was proud as I limped out of the room, desperately trying to make my arms obey. Maybe tomorrow I’ll leave with a sense of “Go me!” Last Friday, all I left with was a wedgie that was visiting regions clothes should never go and arms so tired that I couldn’t quite reach it. Gotta start somewhere, right?
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