First position. Second position. Third. You might think I’m taking ballet. But this is the vocabulary of spinning. Exercising on specially built stationary bikes.
First means I’m seated on the bike, neck and shoulders relaxed, hands on the closest part of the handlebar.
Second: I’m standing up straight over my seat, hands still on same part of the handlebar.
Third: Lean over and grasp the handles three inches in front of the primary handlebar. Stick my butt out over the seat without touching it.
I sit like a normal human being for warm-up, but with my hands floating free. Exhale, inhale. Loosen those muscles in the arms, shoulders, neck.
Next, I lower my arms to the handlebar and start pedaling. My feet should be flat–not pointed–at the bottom of their circles.
Now’s when things start to get complicated. I’m learning to take hills like serious bicyclists. Do NOT take it easy after reaching the top. Instead, power through.
Gradually, I add resistance by turning a knob counterclockwise.
"Keep your cadence steady," says the instructor.
Oof. I’m trying. I’d like to develop more endurance for when I bicycle with my husband. Too often on our bike rides he stops at the top of a hill and looks pityingly at me as I bonk my way up the hill. Or, even worse, I dismount and walk my bike beside me.
However, the beauty of spinning, is that I can dial back the resistance to make my climb easier. Too bad I can’t do that to the hills of Route 16. Sure, I can adjust the gears so they climb more per rotation of the wheel. But the gears can’t ensure that I can force the dratted wheel to move.
"Take me to the promised land," roars from the sound system. Yes, yes. Get me up the imaginary hill.
I make it there, but I’m not supposed to ease up. "Keep going, you can do it," says the twenty-something instructor.
I force my feet to continue.
Finally, I’m there. Only five minutes have elapsed. But a hill pushes me against my limits.
Now it’s cool-down. "Take the tension off." I rush to comply.
About four minutes of relief follow. Then it’s time for a different kind of challenge: jumps.
You might wonder how you jump a bike that’s weighted to stay on the ground. It’s a figurative, not a literal, jump. A shifting of weight from being seated in first position to leaning forward in third position, but with my rump pushed back over the seat, so my weight is evenly distributed.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Jump forward. Eight more counts, back in my seat.
I can do this, I think. Then it’s time for another challenge: Sprints. Twenty seconds at a reasonable resistance. Then another 20 with resistance ratcheted up.
I’m breathing heavily. My face emits sweat at a genteel pace. My glasses start to slide down the bridge of my nose.
The teacher has us switch between base speed and sprint speed. "Add a little more resistance each time," she says.
I ratchet up the resistance in tiny increments. Perhaps one-eighth of a turn instead of the one-half or full turns that I imagine my classmates are making.
Still, I’m pumping away, exploring the limits of my ability.
"Close your eyes. Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth." This reminds me of yoga. I start to float away.
Then it’s over. All that’s left is a cool-down and some stretching. And what do you know? I’m disappointed the class has ended.