Seven or eight minutes into it and my legs are threatening secession from the rest of my body. A wone woman civil war fought on a bicycle that doesn't goddamn go anywhere. I hate spin class. It's so stupid. I HATE spin class. It's SO STUPID! My leg muscles are totally petrified, horrified that I would put them to such monotonous and cruel work. I can feel them commiserating, tightening and forming alliances in there. The muscles have thrown in the towel, yeah. Yet the bones keep going--my legs keep going, and the former have no choice but to go along for the ride, spinning and spinning and spinning with so much wild abandon, trying to get nowhere as uickly as possible with as much speed as they can drain from the rest of me. Rightleftrightleftrightleftrightleftrightleft! No one should go this fast, I think, unless they're being chased by much bigger people. And the big people want to kill them. My legs just keep going, and going, and the pain is a fiery cold snowball, spinning and rolling and building and burning and getting bigger and becoming my legs. They fade in and out of numbness, feeling nothing one moment and an intense and scorching rippin burn the next. My legs are going to fall off and I won't even know it. It's like having a rug burn on the inside. Or when someone twists both their hands around your forearm in opposite directions--the Indian rope burn! INside my legs, throughout my legs, some slick bastard has managed to wrap his hands between the muscle and bone of my thighs and is twisting in opposite directions. Probably Satan. And this spin class instructor guy is in on it, too, i 'm sure. I suspect he knows Satan. They were probably roomates once.
If I hadn't seen them with my own eyes, I would swear to you I've lost my knees at some point during this hellacious 45-minute ride that doesn't go anywhere. I'm trying! I'm trying! Spinning and spinning and spinning. My heart knows we're in a terrible place and it wants to abandon ship, banging, POUNDING on the inside walls of my chest with all the enthusiasm and terror of a conductor trapped inside a train about to fly off the tracks. The imaginary hills ARE THE WORST. He's making us stand up. Are you INSANE, guy?! Stand and pedal with your lifeless stiff legs, ladies! And so I stand on legs I'm not even sure exist anymore. Still spinning. I'm standing, they're spinning and dizzy and hating me. Trudging up steep stairs made of heavy wet clay and giving a piggyback ride to a baby elephant. At 4 miles an hour, please, ladies! The room is thick with heavy, sticky air. Evaporated, syrupy air. Like if you take the trees out of the rainforest in the middle of July on the hottest day of the year and replace them with bicycles that don't goddamn go anywhere. I have expect to hear monkeys howling along the the abrasive techno shit blaring from all four window-less walls. A little box of hell. Hell is a little botx of dense, moist heat and I am inside of it.
I was wearing a light gray shirt when I'd started eighteen minutes ago, and the room was a cool 72 degrees. I know because it felt like my house when I arrived. I was smiling then. The world was a kind place. Now my shirt is mostly dark gray and clingning, damp and drenched, to my arms and my stomach and my back and my chest. I in turn am clinging to these horrible rubbery handlebars, which were certainly not made with warm wet palms and slippery fingers in mind. Fumbling, scrambling to hold on to these horrible effing handlebars. I am NOT smiling anymore. There IS no santa claus. I am sweating. No, no. I am RAINING perspiration. The moisture has in fact coated me, my once light gray shirt, and my ponytail that I really wish I had worn high now that I feel it plasted to the back of my neck, holding on for dear soaking wet life so as not to fall off this bicycle that still doesn't seem to be going anywhere.
How much time is left. Where's the clock. WHY DON'T WE HAVE A FUCKING CLOCK?! I can feel thel signle bead of sweat slide down my forehead, and I can feel it hanging from my eyebrow, plotting its launch into my open ey---OH MY GOD WHY CAN'T I SEE?!?! And my right eye is clenched like a violent fist wrapped around a salty sting that won't go away.
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