It was my induction into modern womanhood, and the single most terrifying workout I’ve ever partaken in. I thought it would be interesting to take a spinning class—I’d heard about how popular they are amongst the hardcore athletes and I was in the mood to get my ass kicked first thing in the morning. So I showed up.
First rule of spinning class—never show up on time.
I sat in an empty and dark room, wandering through the skeletons of bicycles, wondering if I had imagined the start time of this class. And then they came walking in. The yoga pants army.
Second rule of spinning class—never make eye contact.
Eye-contact shows equality, and those who know their way around an immobile bicycle are equal to no mortals. These women came filing in, five to seven minutes late, and considered each bike for one beat before choosing a winner. I watched as they found their spot in the room. “The perfect spot” I thought jealously as they metaphorically pissed on the area upon which their metal structure presided. I looked down through the sea of my thighs below the petals and then up to the front of the room where the combination of poor lighting and a giant pole prevented any visual of the instructor.
Third rule of spinning class—you are there to be seen, not to see.
As the yoga pants army slowly, meticulously, and methodically found their places around the open room, they began to do something that I never would have expected. They didn’t chat amongst themselves, they didn’t stretch their legs or fix their hair. Completely independent of one another, as a part of some mutual understanding, each of these women began to cycle. Slowly. Creepily. So their spider legs moved in a perfect rhythm that was always on the verge of, but never reached the point of, stopping. They spun their wheels at the same rate that, I suppose, barbie might if she were brought to life. With omniscience and anticipation. An entire immobile fitness mosh pit came to life. A pit whose members neither showed indifference nor interest in their activity, a balancing act that I can only attribute to the way their bony asses sat in the tongue depresser of a seat.
It was a sign, I decided. The yoga pants army was ready. The yoga pants army was warmed up. The yoga pants army was waiting for its leader.
Fourth rule of spinning class-- every mob needs a leader.
And so he came, in the same demeanor as his followers. Never directly addressing anyone, never looking a human in the face. He was, after all, a God amongst goddesses. The next 45 minutes were a blur of incoherent screaming on the part of the instructor, incomprehensible amounts of sweat and pain on the part of yours truly, and and an overall sense of awe to those who survived through what I can only explain as the most terrifying exercise I have ever experienced. I don’t know why we did half of the things we did. I don't think I could even tell you what they were.
Fifth rule of spinning class-- if you can't beat them, try again.
All I know, is by the end of this harrowing experience, the yoga pants army left as quickly as they came and in the same fashion—better than me. And most of me agrees with them. I wouldn’t look at me either if I could crack a walnut with one thigh muscle. But I left that room a different person than I arrived. I didn't become one of them. Not even close. But I became the challenger, the observer, the bitch who will take them all down next week, when I out-spin their asses. That is, if I can feel my own ass at that point.
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