So on Friday mornings, I get my sorry butt out of bed at 5:00 a.m. so I can make the 5:45 a.m. spinning class. And I am not alone. The gym opens at 5:30 a.m., and when I arrive at about 5:25 a.m., there is already a line of people trailing from the building.
(Yes, the class is that good. I work so hard the top of my hands sweat. Too much information?)
So it becomes a bit of a comedy. As we get out of our cars, it's pretty obvious that we're all trying to race (without looking frantic) to get in line - you know walking really fast, but not so much that we're running, while simultaneously casually sipping our water bottles, as though we haven't a care in the world (besides GETTING A BIKE IN THE CLASS). Once you secure your place in line, you can watch each person mentally count what number they are. Because there are only twenty bikes. If you find yourself in the bigger teens, you start biting your nails, hoping that one of the people in front of you isn't doing the spinning class, that maybe they just want to run in place at 5:30 a.m. (I did it for years - it happens folks.)
It's really stressful up until that point where the doors open and we file in - all the while trying to maintain our casual obsession with getting into the class, almost pushing and shoving but not quite because that would be embarrassing - and we write our names on the list. Today I was number EIGHTEEN. I was there twenty minutes early, and I barely got a bike. Eighteen gave me the bike in the corner where the fans don't really toss any air so much as they provide nice decoration, but by the end of the class I couldn't decide what was the bigger victory - completing the rigorous work out of insane sprints uphill followed by long durations of seated climbing, or getting a bike in the first place.
No. I'm not at all competitive. Why do you ask?
(Yes, the class is that good. I work so hard the top of my hands sweat. Too much information?)
So it becomes a bit of a comedy. As we get out of our cars, it's pretty obvious that we're all trying to race (without looking frantic) to get in line - you know walking really fast, but not so much that we're running, while simultaneously casually sipping our water bottles, as though we haven't a care in the world (besides GETTING A BIKE IN THE CLASS). Once you secure your place in line, you can watch each person mentally count what number they are. Because there are only twenty bikes. If you find yourself in the bigger teens, you start biting your nails, hoping that one of the people in front of you isn't doing the spinning class, that maybe they just want to run in place at 5:30 a.m. (I did it for years - it happens folks.)
It's really stressful up until that point where the doors open and we file in - all the while trying to maintain our casual obsession with getting into the class, almost pushing and shoving but not quite because that would be embarrassing - and we write our names on the list. Today I was number EIGHTEEN. I was there twenty minutes early, and I barely got a bike. Eighteen gave me the bike in the corner where the fans don't really toss any air so much as they provide nice decoration, but by the end of the class I couldn't decide what was the bigger victory - completing the rigorous work out of insane sprints uphill followed by long durations of seated climbing, or getting a bike in the first place.
No. I'm not at all competitive. Why do you ask?
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