So I decided to grow a pair (I’m not sure what of, just an otherwise unspecified pair) and check out the cycle class at La Fitnesse.
I’m adding an “e” to “Fitness” and italicizing it to make it Frenchier. Just go with it.
So today I put on my padded bike shorts and waddled on down to the place and talked to the lady. And she was super nice, and not too perky, just perky enough. And she set me up on my Super Spinnerator 9000 with the adjustable seat and the adjustable handlebar thingy. I’m an H-2, if that means anything to you.
And then she started the music and off we rode, directly into the jaws of Hell.
I had had a hard enough time just showing up for the class so I figured if I just stayed in the room for the entire session that would demonstrate my dedication to phfffftness. Not necessarily on the bike-thinger, just in the room.
Internets, I did so much better than that.
The guy next to me went through an elaborate pre-class ritual that involved putting on his special shoes and getting out his special towel and all that. This seemed to be pretty standard for most people in the class, and truth be told I am well enough acquainted with my own personal sweat-threshhold that I brought a towel along. I was miffed when I couldn’t find my Lance Armstrong Livestrong Ridetm towel, but I didn’t let this deter me from my goal of occupying a room in which a spin class was taking place. I didn’t bring my scary shoes because I thought that seemed a bit ambitious for a Traditionally Built Woman such as myself who had not attended such a class in living memory, but next time (YES I SAID NEXT TIME) I will.
But then the guy next to me did something no one else did, which was to take about six feet of fitness-club paper towel off the communal roll and fold it over a couple of times and lay it across the front feet of the Bikerator SpinMaster Plus he was on.
This was to catch sweat. That fell. Off his hands and arms. And saturated the paper towels.
RIGHT NEXT TO ME.
IT GETS WORSE.
After class we dismounted and did some stretching. And I lost my balance. And I grabbed the nearest thing to me.
Which was the SLIMY DISGUSTING BIKE SEAT that this sweaty, sweaty man had recently vacated.
It was visibly moist with sweat from his personal groin region.
I will be boiling my left hand for an hour and have already marked this keyboard for incineration. I WILL NEVER FEEL CLEAN AGAIN.
… Anyway, I didn’t just stay in the room. I stayed on the wretched bike-thing. I even rose up off my seat, more than once, when so directed. I sweated freely and my own special towel was rather damp by the end.
I’m going back! In a couple of days! When I can walk again!
But I’m not riding next to the sweaty guy.