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.
