Cycling - The Racing Post

Cycle Logic - Confessions of a Spin Class Addict

By Diana North

I’m about to admit to what I once considered a shameful secret; I’ve been taking spin classes. There, I’ve said it and I’m not ashamed. When I first started showing up for the occasional spin class I kept quiet about it. In fact, only my family and best girlfriend knew. At the time, my thinking ran along the lines of, “The weather stinks and I’m desperate….” Later I went out of fear. Fear of being dropped so badly I’d cry when I finally got back on the bike, fear of losing the level of fitness I’d worked so hard to achieve, fear of forgetting how to pedal.

My addiction started late last year when unacceptable winter weather dragged on for what seemed an eternity. Weather that made me feel resentful and ready to move to Cancun. Since the hubby insisted on staying with his career thingee, I had to face the harsh reality that Texas weather and I were just going to have to come to an understanding. Something more effective than my current method of, “I will complain; it will ignore me.”

In the depths of desperation I’d allowed myself to be talked into actually using my gym membership. “It’s better than nothing,” I thought, until 15 minutes on a stationary bike nearly changed my mind. There were televisions droning, people looking drone-like, music that made me want to be a drone. But the machines frightened me, the elliptical contraption made my arms jiggle and the treadmill made me dizzy. Something, clearly, had to give.

Enter the spin class. I sauntered into the first one looking down my nose at those weird spin bikes. Oh brother. I’d seen their kind before—the one fake wheel, the pedals with cages on them. No drops on the handlebars whatsoever. But true to my nature I dragged along my uncertainty, too. Spin bikes were foreigners in my native cycling land. I wasn’t sure I’d be any good at riding such a weird contraption in front of a bunch of strangers. The moment of doubt met the disgust at outdoor temperatures less than 50 degrees. I did spin class.

The instructor, a pretty young blonde woman, was nice and helpful. Nobody laughed at me when class started. Loud music helped distract me from the fact that I was pedaling like mad and not moving an inch. The instructor became less nice—insisting that the entire class stand and pedal for mind numbing stretches of time. Intervals of standing could last a whole song. High resistance intervals mimicked phony hills. Who knew three minutes could last so long?

Up and down, up and down. My thighs burned. My breath came in gulps and gasps. I was pretty sure this woman hated me. My foot slipped out of the pedal cage during a sprint and, for those who don’t already know this, spin bikes don’t coast. Let’s just say I collected an assortment of small bruises before I remembered where the brake was.

After the hour was up I was drenched in sweat. My water bottle was dry. My face was splotchy and red from the effort. So, I did what any self-respecting cyclist would do. I went back again. I’d discovered timed indoor suffering for $15 a month. I soon settled into a routine over the winter. Spin class twice during the week and every Saturday it was too cold or miserable outside to ride. I cackled aloud on days when wind and rain moved my car as I drove to the gym. I smirked setting up my spin bike as the temperatures did their nasty plummeting outside. I worked hard in every class and rewarded myself with 10 minutes in the sauna afterward.

On the day I converted an old pair of road shoes from Speedplay to spin bike cleats I knew I was hooked. I’d made new friends in the classes and then tried to ride harder than they did. I was a model of proper form; I could stand for several songs and drink from my water bottle while doing it. My addiction was official when my favorite spin class instructor suggested I get certified to teach.

Now that the weather is nice, I’m still taking spin classes. I’ve discovered that I no longer need to mope around the house when it rains on group ride days. Traffic, vehicle exhaust, bees in my helmet and bugs in my mouth are things I don’t worry about in spin class. Instead of a gym bag big enough to run away from home with, I carry water, a towel and my shoes in a little bag with a pocket for my membership card. And, after the toughest cycling woman I know admitted including spin classes in her training for road races, I stopped talking about it in whispers. If she could do it, and her CAT 3 instructor could do it, then my spin class addiction was nothing to be ashamed of.

The best side effect of spin classes, though, was discovering that my performance on the bike has actually improved. No one was more surprised than I was. On a spring day slow cruise through a nearby neighborhood, I stood on the pedals and did a short sprint into the wind. It felt pretty good. In fact, it felt so easy I decided to stay up until I came to the end of the street. It was less than a whole song but more than my usual 15 seconds. I smiled.

On the first Tuesday night butt-kicker group ride I pulled more than my fair share into an ugly headwind that had everyone whining. Everyone but me, that is, because high resistance spin class intervals had actually strengthened my legs enough to notice. Still, I was careful to hide my smirk. Some secrets, shameful or otherwise, are better off kept.