For those of you not ‘in-the-know’, spinning (at the University gym at least) involves a room full of oddly orientated exercise bikes surrounding a ‘lead machine’. Offensively loud and fast music is played throughout the class to get your adrenaline pumping, but the speakers aren’t nearly loud enough to drown out the seemingly impos
sible commands of the instructor. Adding to the humiliation of the whole situation are the mirrors and windows which line every wall of the studio: look up and you see people sardonically gawking at you through the window, look to the side and you understand exactly why they’re staring. With that image in mind, here’s a brief account of my spinning hell.
By the time I had negotiated the gym’s unfathomable turnstiles a comfortingly diverse mixture of people were already warming up, and the instructor was mid way through assuring the room that “anyone can finish a spinning class, because you dictate your own level of exertion.” Having considered and wisely discarded this reassurance I searched for a free, discreetly positioned and slightly obscured bike at the back of the room. Of course as luck would have it the only available machine was directly in front of the instructor, in full view of everyone else in the gym, and miles away from the fan. Having prophetically imagined myself turning into a wheezing, immobile heap, helplessly macerating in a puddle of my own sweat by the end of the class, my failure to avoid the judgmental eyes of the spinning veterans was nothing short of traumatic.
Perhaps noticing the horror written across my face, the instructor gave me a knowing look and came over to help adjust my seat height, explaining that the BIG RED lever that was strategically positioned between my legs was to be used to stop the bike. He returned to the front of the class, and said: “maybe you should have a practice with that!” through a friendly smirk.
I wish I’d listened, because as we began our first ‘sprint’ I became instantly terrified by the bike’s momentum; emitted a shamelessly girly scream and gracelessly removed my feet from the still spinning pedals. This is certainly NOT an acceptable method of stopping and will earn you (as it did me) a few condescending glares.
As the class progressed I naïvely allowed myself to internally utter: “This isn’t so bad…” until I realized that my inability to discern left from right meant that, 10 minutes into the class, I had failed to add any resistance to the bike. This error corrected, all my assertions that I could breeze through the class crumbled. As the music got faster and the instructor began to motivationally command everyone to speed up, get out of our seats and change handle bar positions, I quickly discovered that spinning doesn’t just work your legs, but your core, your arms and just about every other muscle group in your body – we even had to do press-ups on the handle bars!
Personal ineptitudes aside, the seats of these torturous contraptions certainly aren’t built for comfort. In fact standing out of the saddle to “work those thighs” quickly becomes a relieving respite. Indeed a hushed and politely euphemistic conversation with a fellow female class member, in the library of all places, assured me that the problem wasn’t because of my height (I’m only 5ft tall so the bike wasn’t exactly a perfect fit) but the awkward ‘design of the saddle.
Mental and physical trauma considered, I left the class (Bridget Jones style) with a surprisingly content sense of achievement; confident that spinning is certainly an effective way to keep fit. Who knows, maybe after a few classes I’ll be able to walk out of the gym door without the gait of a penguin and absent of the need to throw-up!