To Spin or Not to Spin?

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The alarm has just gone off. Do I really have to get up? I wonder. Originally, signing up for an early-morning spinning class seemed like a good idea; it jump-starts the day with some well-needed exercise. Now, though, leaving my bed seems impossible. Ignoring the alarm, I toss from side to side for another ten minutes, grumpy. Do I go ahead with the promise I made myself to get in shape or take advantage of my class-free Friday morning and sleep in? After a few more minutes of internal battle, I decide that I’ll go, solely in the name of banishing flab.

I rip the covers from over me and trudge to the bathroom, still half asleep. Once dressed and ready, with a strong coffee in one hand and an old gym bag in the other, I open the door to find myself standing knee-deep in fluffy white snow. Don’t give up, I think to myself. Do it for your love handles.

Miserable, I drag myself through the colorless stuff. It’s so early the sun hasn’t risen yet. Once at the sports center, I’m shocked by loud techno music to which a row of Arnold Schwarzenegger-type men rhythmically lift 5,000 pounds. Intimidating super models pass by me as I follow the signs to the women’s locker room. There, I choose a locker in the most remote corner to stash my stuff. Not only am I sleepy, but I’m starting to feel really out of place... The smell of shampoo and sweat permeates the stuffy room, and I watch in horror as women of all ages nonchalantly stroll from the showers to their lockers half naked. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, but I try to look casual and keep to my business. You’re here now and might as well go ahead with it, I tell myself.

My first-ever spinning class is being held in the dance studio, and once I get there, armed with a water-bottle and bright pink towel, I see that there are only 4 bikes set up in a semi-circle. The instructor’s bike is at the center. I had hoped I would be able to hide in the corner of the class and not be picked on because I don’t like a lot of attention while exercising. I choose a bike at the edge of the half-circle so as not to be directly in front of the teacher, and pray that the next hour goes by quickly and painlessly.

After a few minutes, the three other members of the class show up. All three of them are middle-aged, and all three look way too cheery before a Friday-morning workout. Magnificent not only are there only four students in my class, but I’m the only teenager. This morning originally started off as a drag because I wanted to sleep in; it has now turned into a full-fledged nightmare. One woman smiles at me―she looks used to this morning-calamity-gym-thing. I try to smile back, but I’m sure all it looks like is a half-grin half-‘I’m going to puke’ face.

Next to her stands a tall balding man clad in orange swimming trunks and a white T-shirt that does little to hide his large beer-belly. The third classmate is a sporty-looking woman already perched on her bike, reading a magazine entitled Health and Fitness. My matching red sweat pants and hoodie (the remnants of a long-forgotten attempt at yoga) are appropriate but almost like false-advertising; I am definitely not into physical activity. I’m starting to get worried now, on top of the whole roller-coaster ride of emotions I’ve already been through this morning. I’m younger than all of them―what happens if I can’t keep up? You still have time to run, I tell myself, panicking. All of a sudden my stubborn side kicks in and glues me to the floor. FLAB FLAB FLAB! I yell internally.

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In a blinding flash bright, thigh-hugging neon yellow shorts, messy red hair, and thick, black-soled running shoes, the instructor, a young twenty-something woman, gallops into the room.

“Yeehaw! OK gang, let’s get your blood flowing this morning!” she yells as she punches the air. She bounces around the studio, her hair tied back with a 80s style headband, and memorizes our names. The other classmates look amused; I’m making out an imaginary prescription for Ritalin, a drug prescribed to people with hyperactive disorders. She wastes no time in telling us just how fit she’ll have us by the end of the six-week course. I’m even more thrilled when she tells us that we should start feeling the results by the end of her first class. She isn’t lying.

Spinning is like basic bike-riding but with a lot of resistance. The kick is that one rarely sits on the bike, making it a trillion times more strenuous. I’m sure at some points of the workout I’m going to have a heart attack or pass out―all I want to do is sit down, but I push myself as hard as I can not do. The instructor, Isabelle, has us take turns peddling as fast as we can while the rest of the class chants our name and encourages us to go faster―exactly what I was hoping wouldn’t happen. An hour later, my legs are so jittery from the peddling that I have a hard time getting off the bike and standing up.

I heave my body to the locker room, this time not paying any attention (or caring) about supermodels, Arnold Schwarzeneggers, or naked grannies. I throw my water bottle and towel into my bag and get my mom to pick me up from the gym; I have no energy left to walk home.

Sitting outside of the gym waiting for my mom, I contemplate the morning, and a strange feeling of belonging comes over me. The two other women from my spinning class walk through the doors, laughing and making plans for lunch. They both smile and wave goodbye to me, and suddenly, it doesn’t matter that I had to wake up early on a Friday morning and walk through snow to get to a place where I was flashed and intimidated. It doesn’t matter that I felt out of place, embarrassed and exhausted. My legs are aching and I’m not sure how I’m going to get into the car when my lift finally arrives. I wave back at them, smiling, and yell “See you next Friday!”

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