Spinning Out Of Control

I was late. My heart accelerated the closer I got.

Please let me get there before her.

I pull into the parking lot, park and grab my water bottle, towel and gym membership. I speed walk to the front doors, scan my membership and bolt through the security doors. Out of breath before I even start.

I’m first! Yay me! 

I scored my favourite bike at Spinning class. I had won the race before my butt even had a chance to get chaffed from the seat and it felt awesome.

The same woman and I have been doing the dance with this particular bike for five weeks. She knows it and I know it. There are at least 25 bikes to choose from and the max number of people who have ever attended a class are six. So there is no doubt we have fallen for the same cycle.

Nothing hurts more than walking in to see her sitting pretty on my ride. Don’t get me wrong, I have no ill will toward this woman, as far as I know she could be a fabulous human being, a real Mother Teresa, but at that moment only one word comes to mind.

Bitch.

And today, when she rounded the corner smiling at me and began adjusting a less superior bike I knew what was on her mind.

Right back at ya.

I know what you’re thinking and you’re right, I do have bigger things to worry about considering I left my job 3 months ago and money is a little tight. But if you’re thinking that all bikes are the same (like I did in the beginning) then you would be wrong. It’s like sleeping in a strange bed; it’s just not the same. Besides, it’s not just the bike, it’s
where it’s positioned; just slightly off center to the instructor, close enough to hear but far enough away that she can’t tell when I’m not increasing my resistance as much as I should. And most important, it’s right underneath the fan, which is the ultimate bonus.

I know, it’s a little foolish. When I first started, I was stunned at the fanatical relationships people had with particular bikes. The class was clicky. I felt like I was back at school. One man would actually elbow you if you so much as looked at his bike. And if you were a newbie and accidentally saddle up on his baby, he would stare you down until you got so uncomfortable that you would never show your face there again.

They scared me, but luckily now that I’m unemployed (I’m grasping for upsides here) I don’t have to go to that crazy ass class anymore. I can go to a morning class, where people are calmer because the day hasn’t beat the snot out of them yet. We are nice to each other and don’t announce any distain for not getting our favourite bike. We suffer in silence like adults.

A different crazy ass group where our only oddity is the older gentleman who wears his racquetball goggles during class; which I find more eccentric than psychotic given that I’ve never ever seen him with a racquet or a ball.  Maybe he’s been around the block
for a while and wears the goggles for protection in case he mistakenly takes someone else’s ride.

On a side note, I wouldn’t be surprised if he also sports a cup. He’s just that kind of guy.

You know what’s funny? Not getting my bike is more distracting than having
racquetball man beside me conquering his highest mountain for 60 minutes.

Enough said.

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