Let’s get one thing straight: I don’t like spin classes. Five years ago, when I was in college, a sorority sister of mine was a spinning instructor. She suggested I attend her class one afternoon. Being the naïve individual I was at the time, I took my young, skinny body to this class thinking it would be great and I would surely be the fastest spinner. Thirty minutes later, I had a cramp in my side, my foot kept slipping out of the pedal, I was cursing my sorority sister instructor under my breath each time she instructed us all to turn the knob up, and I jumped off the bike and quit. I walked away red-faced with my towel on my shoulder never to look back again… until last Thursday evening.
Upon moving to Tampa, I’ve joined the YMCA. So far, it has been great — especially if you are a single female under the age of 35. But that’s a whole other topic that I’ll explore later, maybe. With a little coaxing and shoving from my brother, Jib and his fiancé, Kristin, I joined the two of them for a spin class. After a lot of fiddling with the seat, disinfecting the handlebars, and tightening the shoe straps on the pedals, I began to feel my stomach twisting.
This article appears in Dec 2-8, 2000.