The Accidental (Spinner): We Ride as One

Those are the words painted on the wall of the spin studio in my gym, O2Fitness. Each letter is approximately six feet high.

How did I even get into a spin studio? I was shamed into it, by the instructor, whom I happen to adore. Turns out, through casual gym conversation, she interned for my eldest brother (now deceased) decades ago so we have ties that go way back. Her “cuteness” either expands or evaporates in the cycle studio, depending upon your point of view. She claps, she cajoles, she barks, she motivates. But whatever she does, she got me on a bike, fitted me to the bike, and got me through my first spin class some three months ago. Now I am almost addicted.

I say almost addicted because I am not ready to make the full commitment. That means I have bought the shorts with the padded bottom — I call them my “diaper” pants. They really make the spinning bicycle much more comfortable and keep you from flopping around on the seat. But I am not yet willing to make the investment in clip shoes, which many class members swear by, claiming they help you “pull up” on the pedals. There are real reasons for my reticence, and those reasons will become evident in future posts. But for now, I am a happy spinner.

My goal for the first class was simply to stay upright on the bike for the 50-minute duration of the class (plus I warm-up about five minutes prior to the start of class). I did not want to embarrass myself by either fainting or vomiting. Proud to say that I was and have remained successful!

In subsequent classes, I have greatly extended the length of time that I ride in a standing position (I can now stand for a good three minutes vs. three seconds) as well as the speed and the exertion with which I pedal. I am not good, and likely will never be, at the rapid “jump series,” where you are up and down out of your seat every two counts. Most of the class is far more advanced than I am, but I know that doesn’t matter. It is my ride, my bike, my class, and I am damn proud.

Those who are closest to me probably already understand the source of my pride. In the late 1980s, my late husband and I both bought bicycles. He never got off his bicycle, and I rode mine once before selling it a year later in a garage sale. He became a “master cyclist” in my opinion, pedaling an average of 5,000+ miles per year, including a 1995 cross-country ride in 21 days.

In the end, though, his cycling was his demise, at the hands of a hit-and-run driver near our home in Connecticut. So for me to get on a bicycle now, six years after his death, is an act of courage I did not know I possessed.

I am proud of myself. I feel strong in ways that I never imagined. Thanks, Margaret, for the dare…