Recently, I took a spin class at the gym. In case you are not familiar with spinning, it's where people of various fitness levels gather in a dark room furnished with ceiling fans and black lights and pretend to ride bikes. The fans are there to cool us down as we pedal feverishly to nowhere, climbing imaginary hills and occasionally jumping out of our seats like frightened orangutans, all to the beat of the latest top 40 hits. Sometimes there are padded pants involved. I don't know why the black lights are there - perhaps to make sure no one has become too intimate with their fake bike?
The class flew by until we were pushing furiously through the throes of our last sprint. The teacher began to count down to the end of the sprint. "Seven! Six! Five!"
"Sweet release," I thought as a bead of sweat trickled off the end of my nose.
Until he began his countdown anew. "Seven! Six! Five!"
"Jerk," I mumbled, reserving some momentum for the remaining numbers.
The teacher smirked from his pedestal - and began AGAIN. "Seven! Six! Five!" The spin groupies, clad in cycling cleats and jerseys, laughed at his patented spin instructor brand of humor, but I was finished.
"FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!" I shouted breathlessly from my perch in the back row. "JUST COUNT DOWN THE DAMN NUMBERS!"
While Ellie Golding prattled on about sweet nothings, the spin teacher braked to a halt (had the bike been real, it would've been a screeching halt) and scanned the half-lit faces in the dark room, searching for the foul-mouthed offender. In the glow of the black lights, the women on either side of me tried to distance themselves by pedaling faster, which doesn't work when you're riding a bike that's attached to the floor.
I envisioned myself exiting the studio, looking the instructor squarely in the eye and asking, "What?" like a street thug or a really pissed off 13-year-old girl.
In reality, I handled the situation as I typically do when something requires good manners and avoiding confrontation. I pretended to be British. I rushed past him, pausing briefly only to say, "That class was brill! Well done! God save the queen!" Surely there was no way this monarchy-lovin' lady could be a loud, flabby American!
I'm happy to report that God save both me and the queen that day -- and also motivated me to bike outdoors.
The class flew by until we were pushing furiously through the throes of our last sprint. The teacher began to count down to the end of the sprint. "Seven! Six! Five!"
"Sweet release," I thought as a bead of sweat trickled off the end of my nose.
Until he began his countdown anew. "Seven! Six! Five!"
"Jerk," I mumbled, reserving some momentum for the remaining numbers.
The teacher smirked from his pedestal - and began AGAIN. "Seven! Six! Five!" The spin groupies, clad in cycling cleats and jerseys, laughed at his patented spin instructor brand of humor, but I was finished.
"FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!" I shouted breathlessly from my perch in the back row. "JUST COUNT DOWN THE DAMN NUMBERS!"
While Ellie Golding prattled on about sweet nothings, the spin teacher braked to a halt (had the bike been real, it would've been a screeching halt) and scanned the half-lit faces in the dark room, searching for the foul-mouthed offender. In the glow of the black lights, the women on either side of me tried to distance themselves by pedaling faster, which doesn't work when you're riding a bike that's attached to the floor.
I envisioned myself exiting the studio, looking the instructor squarely in the eye and asking, "What?" like a street thug or a really pissed off 13-year-old girl.
In reality, I handled the situation as I typically do when something requires good manners and avoiding confrontation. I pretended to be British. I rushed past him, pausing briefly only to say, "That class was brill! Well done! God save the queen!" Surely there was no way this monarchy-lovin' lady could be a loud, flabby American!
I'm happy to report that God save both me and the queen that day -- and also motivated me to bike outdoors.
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