WHY SPINNING CLASSES SUCK

Hello all!

....And a special hello to those of you who are right now, thinking about their fat asses and considering joining a gym. I joined one. AND I rarely have a day that goes by that I'm not thinking of MY fat ass.
Okay fine. So I only started going this week after having had the membership for six months. And..I actually may have to sell a kidney to continue paying the exorbitant monthly fee, butt (pun INtended) I am convinced this is good for me.

I have never been a sporty gal. I prefer my 'sports' to be accompanied by drinking and smoking. For instance, I am quite an accomplished bowler, and damn if I can't scare a few blokes with my dart skills. Alright, so it's not my skills they're scared of.

I figured what the hay, though. Maybe it was time for me to stop complaining about my ass and get it movin'..Very Oprah motivational type crapola then started oozing out my ears. (Oprah, I love you.) I then found myself adding odd music like Michael Jackson's Keep the Faith to my iPod Shuffle. (Which is wrong on many levels, I realise).

So when a co-worker asked if I'd join her on Tuesday for a spinning class at the same gym, I said yes. With little more enthusiasm than if I'd been asked to file my taxes. I knew it would be painful, but I had an obligation and a duty.

Lunch time was when we were planning to sit and spin. I was a nervous spin virgin. I recalled stories I had heard of cult-like gatherings with sinewy Lances and Lancettes pedaling furiously in the dark with blaring music and a light show. I was not sure this was for me.

Ten minutes into the class I KNEW for certain that it wasn't. Besides the fact that the pain on my crotch bone approximated having rough sex with a brick, I could barely understand the instructor's thick Latino accent over the blaring Shakira. The point was that he was to be 'virtually' guiding us bikers through streets and up and down hills with us controlling the resistance on the bike, depending. Didn't help that the little prick decided to tell a room full of Montrealers that they were biking through the streets of Toronto. So when he 'guided' us to a portion of Queen Street to try and pass a motorcycle, I snorted so loudly I almost fell off my bike.

Being the only ones with two X chromosones in the class, I'm pretty sure the instructor, unfeasibly named Larry, was trying to ignore our presence as much as possible. Christ, I was trying to ignore my OWN presence. I was desperately trying to ignore the chest pain and the pools of sweat on the floor around the bike. Tried to ignore Larry, tried to ignore that my co-worker didn't look nearly as traumatised as I, tried to ignore the time and how it wasn't passing nearly fast enough.

When we hit the 45 minute mark, I gave the "get me the fuck out of here" look to my fellow Chick Spinner and dismounted gracelessly. Still pumping the pedals like the Tazmanian Devil, Larry called out "Have a nice day girls!" as we stumbled out of the room ( I more than she). With Jello-Legs I hit the shower and knew that I would never, ever, EVER take another spin class. Good riddance Larry-I-know-your-name-is-NOT-Larry!!