Labour Pains

OK, first and foremost - I am not pregnant! Now that that is out of the way, onto the topic.

Given July is the month of sobriety and attempts to lose the weight that's recently found me, I have decided to up the anti with my workouts.  I realise I could also stop upping my food intake, but my motto has always been 'one change at a time' (Gee, no wonder the weight found me - I was clearly to busy stuffing my face to hide from it!).  

So, in the name of all that is 'upping-the-anti', last week I decided to mix up my workout routine slightly and attend my local gymnasiums I.C.E class. I.C.E stands for "Indoor Cycling Experience", but should actually be an acronym for "Imminent Cardial Infarction Experience (awaits)". 

I loathe spin classes. Correction - I absolutely, unequivocally, irrefutably DISDAIN them. I knew this before I decided to participate in this class and yet somehow, I had lulled myself into a false sense of security thinking that perhaps every other time I've attended spin and hated it, I was either imagining the depth of hatred I felt, or perhaps doing something wrong. (I blame Romy and Michelle's Highschool Reunion for leading me to believe they were an easy class, whose mandatory footwear was a pair of high-heeled pumps fresh from the 90's, teamed with a sequined sports bra).

When Sexy Twin and I attended Boot Camp (aka: Golden Door Health Retreat) in the Hunter Valley in January, we made the same mistake of participating in a spin class only to be utterly tortured by our PT. As it turned out he was training for the Tour de France and using our spin class as his own personal training session! Last weeks I.C.E class turned out to be no exception.

In the midst of a 12 minute straight hill climb I didn't know whether to swear, throw-up, slap the instructor, cry, commence cardial infarction, or F: all of the above.  My glasses fogged up from the sweat and the steam I generated, and my ample derriere perched upon a seat no bigger than a hairbrush, reminded me of it's ampleness the entire ride.  The funny thing was once the class was over the pain all but dissipated and a strange sense of achievement washed over me. 

Later as I whinged to Muscle Man about my bruised posterior, I quipped that to me a spin class is like the early stages of labour.  The minute it begins you are reminded how shockingly bad it is.  You recall with sudden clarity the agony you will feel, and the marathon that's ahead.  You remember that relief only comes with the scream for "MORE DRUGS", or the end of the class. And yet when it's all finished and the experience has passed you by, you wonder how bad it really was...and somehow decide you might even do it all again!