October 06, 2004
hard body here i come
Last week I did the unthinkable: I paid an organization my hard earned money for access to personal torture. No, I didn't sign up for plastic surgery or S&M training courses (you're not too far off, though). With access to an incredible corporate rate, I have joined the local frou-frou gym.
Flabby ass, begone.
Well, today was my first day attempting a return to gym activities in, oh, perhaps 8 years (if even that recently).
A bit of history: I've had a bit of a phobia of gyms ever since my mother used it as a torture device when I was a teenager. Constant criticisms from my mother about my weight, and her pinching of various body parts of mine, paired with offers of monetary compensation for going to the gym (because "Honey, you really need it") didn't do so well for my motivation. I was smarter than her, and saw through her manipulation, and so I refused to be bought. Now, as an adult, it's been very difficult to alter that early self-training. I'm sure many years of therapy will help me get over it. For now, all I can afford is a self-induced swift kick in the ass.
And so I entered the bastion of beauty, the pinnacle of physical fitness, the sanctuary of Rich Suburban Moms: Spectrum Club Thousand Oaks. My goal: to participate in the noontime "Cycling" class.
Bahaha.
Sadly, the "instructor" was more of a cheerleader (some might say nefarious dictator), and didn't really teach me anything. She did, however, adjust the seat height and position for me after I asked her as the class was starting (this was also after my standing around for 10 minutes prior, hoping she'd say hello to the new face). I had no idea what to expect, other than I'd be on a bike for an hour, and I'd have trouble sitting after.
The music came up, and to Billy Idol's "Dancing With Myself", Frau Van Helsing (we'll call her) screamed, "START SPINNIN". Every 10 seconds, she'd call, "CRANK IT UP", followed by a sharp crack of a whip. Honestly, it wasn't so bad. I could handle it. 60 minutes of this would be cake.
Then I heard the most frightening thing of all, "Alright folks, now STAND UP." I blanched. I tried. I failed. My right foot slipped out of the "foot lock" (I was supposed to tighten those things?) and the force of the spinning wheel maintained a steady velocity while the sharp metal pedal came back and scraped up my right leg.
Ow.
It's ok, I could take it. I put my foot back in, tightened both sides, and stood up... for 3 minutes... then sat back down. I heard a whip crack again, and Billy was screaming, "MORE MORE MORE". Unable to ignore the call, I stood back up, "cranked it up", and kept going (even in the face of pure evil that rode before me on a stage, giggling at how easy the workout was for her).
After a full 25 minutes of class, the burning, the throbbing, the sweating, and the "am I bleeding?" brought me to the end of my rope. I stepped off the bike, and moved to a safer, tamer, soft plastic pedalled cycle on the main floor and coasted at a beautiful, gentle, and delicate pace for another 10 minutes.
For my troubles, I've got a lovely wound to take home, coupled with a fantastic limp. Thankfully the next noontime class is on Monday, so I have a few days to recover.
In the meantime, however, I'm gonna get myself some padded shorts.
 It feels a lot worse than it looks. |
 PsychoKitten is concerned. |
Posted by irena at October 6, 2004 09:15 PM
Comments
Um. Ouch.
And the cat. Damn cute. Best kitty picture EVER!!! :)
Posted by: oakz at October 7, 2004 08:39 PM