Last year I bought a package of fifteen sessions at a spin studio. I thought that adding a cycling class every week or two would help diversify my training. I used a few of the passes and despite the best of intentions I forgot about them until last night when I signed into my account. I had twelve of the fifteen classes left and unless I use them by March 1, 2020 they will expire. In other news, I went to a spin class this morning.

It felt good to be back in the saddle — that’s spin speak for on the bike. I chose bike number 36, adjusted the settings and put on my rental shoes. Surprisingly they clipped right into the pedals on my first attempt, this is an unheard of experience for me. I usually struggle with the clips, embarrassingly so.

The instructor adjusted his headset, turned the lights down and the music up. I could feel the beat pumping through my body like a second heart — the pace-maker for our ride. The lights changed from white to a variety of colours and then back to white — a light show that could be best described as both a rave-goer’s dream and an epileptic’s worst nightmare.

I did my best to keep up with the instructor and the women to my left and right. I was surrounded by inspirationally fit folks who had energy for days. I couldn’t seem to match it, but I guess I didn’t have to. It wasn’t a race, we would all arrive at the same place at the same time — the end of class, 45 minutes after we started. We would take from the workout what we gave to the workout.

It was my first fitness class since my surgery just before Christmas. I had to actively quiet that little voice inside of me, that limiting mindset that tried to use the surgery as an excuse to not exert what I was capable of in that moment. A few times I forced myself to get comfortable being uncomfortable. I entered the pain cave willingly and hung out for a while.

At one point in the workout the room went dark and the instructor asked us to close our eyes. He guided us through a visualization exercise — his voice was briefly calming and quiet when suddenly he shifted gears and shouted: “IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT!!!!”

‘It’s Friday night, ok, so I’ve got my Batman pajamas on and I’m watching Dateline, now what?’

My eyes shot open to a chorus of ‘WOOOOOs’ in response to the instructor’s declaration that it was Friday night and not Wednesday morning.

Ah, of course, we were in the club, not in my living room, fireplace on, figuring out whodunnit (the husband, with a life insurance policy on his wife, a mistress and a burner phone).

I can’t remember the last time I was in a club. Wait, have I ever been in a club? My mind-body disconnect was pronounced, although to someone watching the class I looked fully engaged, peddling fast and hard and mechanically moving between sitting to climbing to hovering. My brain however was working to sort through the past in search of evidence of club attendance, as if it mattered. I was suddenly snapped back to reality with the instructor’s booming voice echoing:  “LET’S RIDE, C’MON!

One down, eleven to go!

Stay great!

Kate