My First Cycle Class

In an effort to kick start my cardio, I committed myself to attending every cycle class LA Fitness offered between the time I got my hands on that pass and the morning of the weigh-in. For those who don’t know what it is, it’s basically riding a stationary bike for an hour at time set to music. That sounded simple enough and I have heard LB talk about it being her favorite workout for years. I was excited about experiencing it for myself, or, as excited as a slightly chubby, moderately lethargic, gravy and biscuit eating male could be.

I got there about 15min before class started. With it being my first time attending, I didn’t want to get there late and cause a scene because I didn’t know what I was doing. I walked into the room where the class was held. Three of the walls were mirrors and the other one glass looking out into the rest of the gym. They’re about 50 bikes lined up in 5 rows of 10, all pointed to one single bike up front. This must be where the dictator sits, shouting orders to his subjects. There were already a couple people there. I could tell they took fitness way too seriously. I resorted back to my days of being a Baptist and quietly slipped into a bike on the far right of the very last row. I saw the other people adjusting their bike, so I adjusted my seat and handle bar height, strapped my feet in, and got ready for the next hour of unknown.

The first thing I noticed when I sat down was how horribly uncomfortable the seat was. I felt violated like never before. My seat could have possibly been a registered sex offender. Now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen an LA Fitness within a 10 mile radius of any school system…coincidence? I looked around at the other people to see if perhaps I was sitting on it wrong. It was then I noticed that they had brought their own cushion attachment to strap onto the seat. My suspicion of them taking fitness too seriously was confirmed. Who owns stationary bike accessories?

By now the class was getting pretty full so I thought I would look around and do a quick demographic study. There was quite a bit more women than men, probably a 70/30 mix. The most noticeable group of females was the group of older black women who sat front and center and looked like they would be friends with Big Momma from that Martin Lawrence movie. They also became to be my favorite clique because they were hilarious. There were a few other groups of women, however there was also about 7-8 massively muscular black guys mixed into the field as well. Despite the fact they could have thumped me and knocked me over, them being present kept me from feeling like a girly man. The most surprising group of men was the 4-5 guys who reminded me of someone I would see fishing off the side of a causeway back home in Alabama. One kept a spitcup in the spot the water bottle was supposed to go.

My people watching mode was over when the instructor began speaking. To my surprise, she emerged from the group of Big Momma’s friends and turned out to be Big Momma herself. I wasn’t nearly as worried about the next hour now. I mean, I know I am out of shape, but if she is the instructor, I got this. We began pedaling. The seat next to me was finally taken by a 16yr old, 85lb Hispanic girl. 25 minutes later, there is a pool of sweat surrounding my bike the size of the Great Lake and I want to hurl myself through the glass wall. I can’t take any more and Big Momma is screaming, “It’s your workout! You only get out what you put in!” I wanted to put myself in a recliner. As she was having everyone “Climb that hill!” I had to sit down for a second. I was still pedaling, just sitting. Apparently this did not sit well with the young girl next to me. When she noticed me taking a breather she looked towards me and yelled, “C’mon! Let’s go!” I now wanted to throw her through the glass wall, but I just smiled and kept pedaling.

What felt like 5hrs later (in reality, it was 5min), the instructor wanted everyone to stand up and, using the bike handlebars, do pushups to the cadence of the beat. I wanted to raise my hand ask if she had mistaken me for the guy in that movie Step It Up, because this clearly wasn’t happening. In my defense, I did attempt it and because of the mirrored walls, I could see that whenever everyone else was down I was up and when they were up I was down. Even so, I kept going for a while, I was committed. It wasn’t the fact that I have the rhythm of Steve Urkel that kept me from carrying on, it was that I am so uncoordinated every time I leaned forward I almost tipped the bike over. I decided that I would rather have my new Hispanic friend yell at me than do a face plant in the middle of the class. It was the lesser of the two evils.

Despite Big Momma kicking my tail the last half hour of the class, I made it through with only taking the designated breaks. You knew it was a designated break time because Big Momma would scream, “Hydrate!” While we were sipping our never more precious water, I noticed Big Momma didn’t take breaks; she has to be a machine. During break time she would stand up on the bike and just start dancing. Sometimes the group of Big Momma’s friends sitting front and center would be cheering her on. It was like watching Soul Train on wheels.

Finally, it had been an hour and we were off our bikes stretching. I don’t know if that was the hardest hour of my life, but it was definitely the most unique. I was glad it was over, but the only thing that kept going through my head was, “1 down, 8 more to go.” It will be ok as long as I can pull out the victory.