The angel who offered to call 911 offered up her bike instead.Īlthough dizzy and discombobulated, I lasted the hour.Įarlier that week, I had attended two funerals, which had left me wondering pondering how I would die. I even composed a mental list of possibilities, from most likely to least.Ĭancer, heart attack, stroke, and car accident topped my list. Fire, drowning, gun shot, stabbing, suicide, and plane crash were at the bottom.Īfter that second spin class, I was consumed with thoughts such as, "Hitting my head on a concrete block wasn't even on my list. The instructor asked me to switch to the only other available bike, but this one didn’t have a drink holder. When I started pedaling my bike squealed. Having passed through before, I knew the doorway was low and that at 6-foot-2 I would have to duck, but I underestimated how much ducking was required and whacked my forehead hard against a concrete block.Ī woman who heard the thud and saw what happened offered to call 911 and bring me ice. In pain with a rapidly-growing lump, and embarrassed, I insisted I was fine. But I was engrossed in a story and continued to read as I walked. Never a good idea. When the instructor approached, I headed toward the room. I draped my towel over a bike and sat outside the room to read. The following Thursday, when I arrived 35 minutes early with a water bottle, towel, magazine, and earplugs.
#Ondrej lingr full#
Two more minutes, and I wouldn’t have been branded with a scarlet “Q” for “Quitter.”īut there would be a next time, because now I knew I could endure the full hour of torture. And, surely, I had burned off at least a tiny lump of cellulite. I fumbled with the doorknob for what seemed like a full minute before I was able to abscond.Īs I passed by the front desk, my eyes searched for a clock. I was mortified to see that it was 6:28. When I could not endure another second, I dismounted and tried to slink out of the room. I had no way to track how much time had elapsed. My greatest fear was that we weren’t even halfway through the class.
I took comfort from those who were sitting when they should have been standing and who were sweating as profusely as I.Ī thousand times I wanted to quit. I could tell the teacher was barking orders at us, but I couldn’t make them out over the music. I tried to follow her lead, alternating between standing and sitting while pedaling.Įvery few minutes, I mopped my face to keep sweat from stinging my eyes. I arrived 30 minutes early. Still, there was only one bike that didn’t have a body sitting on it or a towel draped over to “save” it.Īt 5:30 p.m., the teacher walked in, turned the lights off, and blasted music. I yearned for earplugs. I wanted a good workout, but I didn’t want to go deaf in the process. “Now relax the back of your eyelids.” What? I can’t even feel the back of my eyelids.
Or am I just rolling them back in my head? “Relax your eyeballs.” Okay, I can do that. “Now relax your second toes … your middle toes … your fourth toes … and your pinky toes.” You have got to be kidding me. “Relax your big toes.” How am I supposed to do that?
Many of my friends swear by yoga, and one managed to talk me into trying my first fitness class as an adult. When it rained, I climbed on my elliptical.īut in 2020, after seven years of this routine, I was 60, bored and itching to try something new.
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