Spin Out: vb. to become utterly perplexed and disorientated as a result of one's environment.

Sport in my family has never been optional. I loved it as a child, went through a rocky patch with it as a teenager, formed a firm acquaintance with it at university, and we’ve been good friends ever since.

I might even go as far to say I enjoy it.

So when my sister asked me if I wanted to join her hour-long spinning class this Sunday morning, I agreed. I was intrigued to see what the hype was about, and why so many people – my sister included – got inexplicably addicted to cycling nowhere in a dark room. Could I put the madness down to endorphins?

I’d like to mention at this point that the class was being held in Bondi, the vigorously pumping heart of Australia, home to more wholesome, clean-living people than I have ever seen in one place. You’d be hard pushed to find someone who isn’t wearing sports clothes, drinking a power juice, or powerwalking, or doing all three at once.

As I step inside the gym’s spin studio, I get the overwhelming feeling I’m about to board a rollercoaster ride. Everything is dark except for the UV glow of people’s shoelaces, all I can see is row upon row of powerful, sleek machines, and now that I’m in, there’s clearly no turning back.

My body is already preparing for a G-force experience, so I’m quietly eyeing up the safest back row seat, when my sister waves to me from the front row.

There are plenty of other bikes to choose from, and I trudge up the aisle to ask her why she’s chosen there.

‘Oh, I didn’t want to be near the fan,’ she explains.

‘Hmm?’ I take a deep breath and ask her, in my most patient voice, to explain. It turns out that my sister has been told - from a friend who may or may not even be a gym goer - that more sweating equals a better workout.

What?

Now, I may be wrong, but I think the logic of that has been lost in translation somewhere. I try to explain to my sister that I don’t think a fan would put her fitness in jeopardy, but she waves my explanation off, and by now it’s too late for me to move. So I just roll my eyes (somewhat pointlessly in the dark) and slot my feet into the pedals, trying to fumble my towel, keys and bottle into the holder without dropping anything. It’s the first time I have been in the front row since I was forced to in Year 3, and I quickly remember why I hate it so much.

The room is already heating up and looking around, I see why. Most people are already cycling ferociously in a pre-warm-up warm-up, and some are even discussing/boasting about the classes they’ve just come from. I marvel at the sight of them. They’re like a completely different species.

When the instructor gets going on the mic, and the first bassy remix starts booming through the speakers, it no longer feels like a rollercoaster ride. It’s now the back room of a nightclub, Saturday, at about 3 in the morning. The time when it’s pretty much empty, save for the group of hard-core, still-drunk dancers still making shapes on the dance floor. I half expect to see some sullen-faced cleaner going around with a black bin liner, picking up plastic cups and half-empty bottles of VK Blue.

Thoughts like these run through my mind as I’m repeatedly wrenched out of my comfort zone and looking desperately for distractions. Every time the instructor tells me to turn the resistance dial up, I’m reminded of those torture machines that stretch out their victims, cranking the wheel round, inch by painful inch.

But after a while, the instructor’s positivity becomes oddly contagious, because I find myself - in a deeply uncomfortable way - enjoying it. This enthusiasm quickly wanes about halfway in (I can only assume we’re halfway – can’t read my watch), because by now I’m absolutely roasting and I’ve drunk all my water. The faces and arms of everyone around me are shining with sweat, and I’m envious. Even on the verge of collapsing off the bike, I’m still bone dry – not because I’m fit in the least, but because my body apparently doesn’t know how to cool itself down like normal people. By now, every pore of my skin feels like it’s out of breath. Every time a gust of wind from a neighbouring fan blows my way, I feel a sort of boundless joy that I only ever experience walking down a refrigerator aisle during a heat wave. It also looks like I’m not even working half as hard as the others, to the point that I’m getting paranoid the instructor is judging me. It’s just not fair.

But I’m getting more and more lightheaded by the minute, and soon, I stop caring. I stop thinking about anything at all. In fact, it takes me a while to realise the class has ended, and I only realise when people start to leave, no doubt on their way to another class, their towels sodden, their skin still enviably glossy.

I turn to say something to my sister – expressing my need to find water, or a patch of floor to collapse on - but my words come out as a nonsensical giggle. I try again and fail. Great. Whilst everyone else is experiencing that post-workout ‘rush,’ I seem to be entering the early stages of delirium. I use my towel to pat the pathetic dampness on the back of my neck and wonder whether I’m going mad. In answer to my question, the instructor comes over and asks me what I thought. Before I know what I’m saying, I tell her that I loved it. And that I’ll definitely be booking in for the next session.

Tomorrow.

The weirdest thing is, I really mean it.