Every Tuesday and Thursday for the last month I've dropped Annie at preschool and gone to the gym for an hour of torture. Spinning. For the first two weeks, my butt was so sore from the seat I could hardly sit without a pillow. A month into it, I always finish class feeling like I'm going to puke or fall off the bike. You'd think I'd hate it.
I don't. I love it like a good drug (not that I have any drug experience, but you know what I mean).
Spinning must appeal to the same side of my personality that makes me run half-marathons, have four children in six years, be married to someone who spends far more time each week at the hospital than he does at home. The side who thought it was a good idea to force the girls in my book club to tackle not one, but two recipes from Mastering the Art of French Cooking at our book club meeting last week. The side who thought pregnancy and a full-time job and grad school made a great combination.
So I'm crazy-- you already knew that. I'm the one in the corner of the darkened, air-conditioned room at the gym (maybe I love spinning because it's the only freaking cool place in all of Houston, I think), belting out the songs as I bike, and cranking that flywheel just a little bit tighter so I'll really feel the burn.
--originally published 5/4/07
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