Road to Nowhere

      I put on my Brave Girl undies and decided to try a Zumba class at the Y.
It was actually a step down from the usual class; this one was described as being a bit lower impact. I felt even braver when the lady behind me lined up, all fluffy white hair, round middle, with fuchsia lipstick matching her fuchsia tee, and looking like she probably made one mean babka. She confided that she was 78.

          We filed in, gathered weights, and picked our spots. And stood. And stood. Turned out the instructor was a no-show. To soften any disappointment, a Y employee listed classes that would be starting in a few minutes, or an impromptu spin class that one instructor had volunteered to head up. It was to last a half hour. Half hour? I can handle a half hour! I thought. Here’s a way to see if I’d like to take up spinning.

          Eight of us were ushered down a hallway I’d never noticed before and into a long, narrow, and windowless room. That should have been my first hint.

          The instructor and one of the staff adjusted things and got us up on our bikes. I found myself suspended so high in the air it was a challenge to mount my bike, and my feet were trapped in the pedal holsters. We began with some warm-up pedaling and then the instructor popped in a ‘beginners’ video on the big screen in front. It showed a virtual route, with a virtual Australian/English gentleman narrating as he virtually rode along with us.

          Then the doors in back of us closed, the lights went off, and it was just us in this forgotten corner of the Y. The women to my right enthusiastically stood up in their stirrups as we climbed the virtual hills. In front of me the fluffy haired lady in fuchsia pedaled like the Eveready bunny, without pause or hesitation. I began a dialogue in my head reminding myself that I exercised, I played pickleball, I even went on occasional 5 mile bike rides with My Guy. I could do this!

          There in the dark, with only black light illuminating the reflective strips on our exercise clothing, we pedaled. And pedaled. A muscle in my right thigh began to twinge.

I looked at the video. The red line that moved as we progressed through the video indicated we’d only completed one fourth of it. The bike seat was becoming an instrument of real discomfort. I considered standing up like everyone else on the next hill, but then decided chances were too good I’d tip off onto the floor.

          Ever seen those movies where hapless victims are chained to some machine, forced to generate electricity through sheer exertion?

          The shame (and possible hazard) of climbing off the bike and creeping away in the dark was too great. I pedaled onward. The instructor, on a bike in front, and in spite of having her back to us, called out encouragement, telling us how great! we were doing.

          As proof that everything really does come to an end eventually, it was over. I somehow dismounted, and exited shakily, meeting up with Fuchsia Lady in the hall. We both looked at each other and said, “Never Again.”