It’s Wednesday night and I am once again David-less. Between working full-time, going to grad school, and subbing in various community orchestras I don’t see much of him these days. Which, of course, is never a good thing because it leaves me to my own devices on more nights of the week than normal. Devoid of our normal Wednesday evening activity (community group has been moved to Fridays) I was left with an empty house and my take-home work from the hospital staring back at me. So, like the reasonable, hard-working person that I am I left the work sitting at the desk and headed out the door for the gym as I saw that they were offering a spinning class tonight.

    I arrived with a few minutes to spare and quickly scribbled my name on the roster to reserve a spot and waited for the step class to finish so that the spinning class people could move the bikes onto the raised platform that classes are held. The instructor’s name was “Sandy” on the board and I was expecting a female and a normal round of jumps, hills, etc. that these classes have to offer. Five minutes after class is supposed to start in rolls the instructor, a slim man with tattoos wound around his arms in biking shorts, a torn t-shirt and red  socks displaying the spinner emblem. The best part, though, was his white towel with a bright orange ribbon sewn around the hem.

“It’s Wednesday Night, Baby!”

     Commence the most difficult spinning class I have taken to date. I think, in part, because it was taught by a boy. I survey the class from my space in the back. There is the normal smattering of gym night people: young women, a few young men, and only a handful people who look a day older than 35. The one exception was a distinct older gentleman who appeared to be from India wearing pleated dress slacks and thick 80’s style glasses. 

“Push it baby! Push it baby! One! Two! One! Two! Faster! Gear it up! Push! Pull!”

    The class allowed little time to rest between the periods of intense riding. The instructor had a funny habit of talking out of only one side of his mouth and winking at people who caught his eye. Twenty minutes in and my lungs were loudly reminding me that I had forgotten my trusty red albuterol inhaler. The older gentleman was starting to get a furrow on his brow, but I noticed that he was not adding difficulty to his bike like the rest of the class. He surveyed all of us white people sweating it out. I could see him laughing at us behind his thick glasses:” stupid Americans. Turning that knob makes this difficult.”

“Push!Pull! OW! Bring it home! Put that road behind you! Push! Pull! Come on, baby!”

   Thirty-five minutes into the class and my stomach is thinking that the dinner I ate an hour and a half  ago isn’t compatible with this level of cardiac output to my legs. I could feel the hot sweat dripping off my face down my arms.

“It’s Wednesday night, baby!”

The class finishes up. The man in the thick glasses never even broke a sweat. I chat it up with an old co-worker of mine from my days in the medical unit who also happened to be taking the class. I am exhausted. I am so going back next week.