Spin Instructors Are Witches

I love cardio. I solve most of my difficult problems, have the best brainstorming sessions, and see the most beautiful sights during my outdoor runs. So, let me rephrase my first sentence. I love running, outside.

Well, it’s been below freezing and even below zero for more days than I care to count this winter in PA. My love for outdoor running is literally on ice for a while. The elliptical makes my toes go numb and I’m pretty sure the treadmill has the same effect, but on my brain. I don’t want to watch the tiny TV, hear the strained mouth breathing or obnoxious foot pounding of my treadmill neighbors or suffer through the labor-like groans of the weight lifters. So, I stick to yoga at home and torture, I mean spin, at the gym.

Spin instructors have all the motivation. Sometimes, it’s contagious. Most mornings, it’s infuriating. I’m pedaling and panting and perspiring profusely but can’t seem to get my RPMs to the magical number she keeps yelling over the music. One more hill climb and one more minute clearly doesn’t mean what I think it means. One is a simple number. A single minute, like one minute. So, more than zero but less than two and certainly less than eternity! Sometimes the crazy lady yells the 10 second countdown and I’m looking at the time on my bike and know her counting skills need improvement. But there have been other times when my thighs are about to spontaneously combust where she says 30 more seconds and I’m watching that bike clock for the whole 30 seconds but it’s all in slow motion. The longest, most torturous half a minute of my entire life. It’s sorcery. I’m convinced.

But, I keep showing up for torture, I mean spin. And I’ll keep going until the glorious days of Spring arrive. 30 more seconds it is.

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