Is it like school -- where you sit says a lot about you? Are you a geek or blind and choose a spot up front? Or are you secretly planning to slack in the back row and chatter with your buddies?
Or maybe it's like church -- always in the fourth pew on the left side of the sanctuary. For no apparent reason at all, except it's a comfortable habit. Or as comfortable as one can be on a hard wooden bench in dress clothes, reciting such passages as, "Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of these my brethren, [even] these least, ye did it unto me." Matthew 25:40.
Huh?
Maybe it's not like either of those, but it's what I'm choosing to tumble around in my mind with today -- figuring out the reason why I sit where I sit in spinning class and analyzing my fellow spinners, their technique, their clothes, their physique, their ability to create small ponds of sweat beneath their bikes within the first 10 minutes of riding.
I sit in the back row, of three. The fifth bike from the door, which is about the middle of the room, in line with the instructor. It's amazing I even remember where I ride, given the fact that I do this at 5:15 a.m., an hour of lung-searing muscle fatigue and drenched spandex, without a first cup of coffee to pry open the eyes.
But during that hour, I have a lot of time to stare at the lycra'd butts of the folks in front of me and contemplate the who, what, when, where, why, and how of their existence. There's also a good bit of jabbering that goes on before, during and after class amongst the club members, so I get to fill in the blanks for some of the regulars.
• The Gymnast: She's got perhaps the most amazing female body I've ever seen. She's muscular with still a few curves in the proper place. She's an assistant coach for a college team, as well as a personal trainer at my club. I'd say if fitness is your whole life, you'd better have a body like hers. She wears a sports bra and skintight sports shorts, with nary an ounce of fat hanging over the edges like we real people have.
• The Loudmouth: There are several of these people, mostly men, who make snarky comments throughout class, blurt out all sorts of sports-themed double entendre, and talk way too much to be truly working out. I can't talk when I'm spinning. I can barely breathe.
• The Poor? Guy: I don't know that he's lacking funds, so much as he just needs someone to tell him that he has a hole in his bike shorts. That grows by the day. He may be the one thing that forces me to switch bikes.
• The Guy in Need of a Wax: Why is it that the hairiest men are always the ones parading around with the fewest clothes on? Good gracious dude, you look like you have a small animal perched on your shoulders. I haven't gotten close enough, but I hope it doesn't smell like you have one as well.
• The Triathletes: There's at least half a dozen regulars who are always training for Ironman this or that or whatever. They're ripped. They spend hours a day at the gym (all independently wealthy because, last time I checked, being a full-time triathlete is not one of the top 10 fastest growing careers).
• People like me: We line the back row. We're not professional worker-outers. We don't wear the height of fitness attire. We don't make the biggest sweat puddles or burn the most calories or require extra high-energy electrolyte drinks or go straight from spin class to weightlifting class to yoga to running a half-marathon to getting in our car and driving five miles to the other club that has the swimming pool for lunchtime laps. We're just people trying to make ourselves a little healthier and fitter, one day at a time.
And we're the ones taking note of your quirks, listening to your conversations, and -- gymnast girl -- admiring the hell out of your sculpted self. Just so you know. It's not school, but it is a class, and it's not church, but we might well be coveting an ass or two, so to speak.
Maybe you'll be the one switching your spin class position next time, either to a corner out of full view or to a better position to show off for an audience. You decide. We'll be there to make note of it.
Or maybe it's like church -- always in the fourth pew on the left side of the sanctuary. For no apparent reason at all, except it's a comfortable habit. Or as comfortable as one can be on a hard wooden bench in dress clothes, reciting such passages as, "Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of these my brethren, [even] these least, ye did it unto me." Matthew 25:40.
Huh?
Maybe it's not like either of those, but it's what I'm choosing to tumble around in my mind with today -- figuring out the reason why I sit where I sit in spinning class and analyzing my fellow spinners, their technique, their clothes, their physique, their ability to create small ponds of sweat beneath their bikes within the first 10 minutes of riding.
I sit in the back row, of three. The fifth bike from the door, which is about the middle of the room, in line with the instructor. It's amazing I even remember where I ride, given the fact that I do this at 5:15 a.m., an hour of lung-searing muscle fatigue and drenched spandex, without a first cup of coffee to pry open the eyes.
But during that hour, I have a lot of time to stare at the lycra'd butts of the folks in front of me and contemplate the who, what, when, where, why, and how of their existence. There's also a good bit of jabbering that goes on before, during and after class amongst the club members, so I get to fill in the blanks for some of the regulars.
• The Gymnast: She's got perhaps the most amazing female body I've ever seen. She's muscular with still a few curves in the proper place. She's an assistant coach for a college team, as well as a personal trainer at my club. I'd say if fitness is your whole life, you'd better have a body like hers. She wears a sports bra and skintight sports shorts, with nary an ounce of fat hanging over the edges like we real people have.
• The Loudmouth: There are several of these people, mostly men, who make snarky comments throughout class, blurt out all sorts of sports-themed double entendre, and talk way too much to be truly working out. I can't talk when I'm spinning. I can barely breathe.
• The Poor? Guy: I don't know that he's lacking funds, so much as he just needs someone to tell him that he has a hole in his bike shorts. That grows by the day. He may be the one thing that forces me to switch bikes.
• The Guy in Need of a Wax: Why is it that the hairiest men are always the ones parading around with the fewest clothes on? Good gracious dude, you look like you have a small animal perched on your shoulders. I haven't gotten close enough, but I hope it doesn't smell like you have one as well.
• The Triathletes: There's at least half a dozen regulars who are always training for Ironman this or that or whatever. They're ripped. They spend hours a day at the gym (all independently wealthy because, last time I checked, being a full-time triathlete is not one of the top 10 fastest growing careers).
• People like me: We line the back row. We're not professional worker-outers. We don't wear the height of fitness attire. We don't make the biggest sweat puddles or burn the most calories or require extra high-energy electrolyte drinks or go straight from spin class to weightlifting class to yoga to running a half-marathon to getting in our car and driving five miles to the other club that has the swimming pool for lunchtime laps. We're just people trying to make ourselves a little healthier and fitter, one day at a time.
And we're the ones taking note of your quirks, listening to your conversations, and -- gymnast girl -- admiring the hell out of your sculpted self. Just so you know. It's not school, but it is a class, and it's not church, but we might well be coveting an ass or two, so to speak.
Maybe you'll be the one switching your spin class position next time, either to a corner out of full view or to a better position to show off for an audience. You decide. We'll be there to make note of it.
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