On Cycle Class
She wasn’t my first. There were others before, and there’ve been others since.
But she was my favorite. I suspect she always will be.
Circumstances kept us apart most of the time, but for a few hours a week, I was entirely hers. And when we were together, an hour went by like an instant.
She was funny, but she could also be tough. Very tough. I worked so hard, trying to make her happy. When her lips would curve into a smile of approval, it made my day.
Sometimes she would invite others to come watch us, to get new ideas.
Our song was “Sandstorm” by Darude. She could even make the song shrink or lengthen, depending on her mood. She was tiny in stature, but she was that powerful. I still think about her often, and fondly. Even though I no longer remember her name.
She was the group exercise manager at the 24 Hour Fitness at El Camino and Hwy 92, and when she led a cycle class, you could count me present and accounted for, ma’am. She often climbed off her bike and prowled around the room, never making eye contact with any one individual but letting us know she was watching, always watching, as she barked orders. “Sprint!” “Jumps!” “Hill climb!” The aforementioned others who came to watch were her fellow cycle instructors; she insisted they sample one another’s classes to keep everyone at the top of their game.
I’ve been attending cycle classes for almost twenty years now, and I’ve encountered dozens of instructors. The worst are the throwback dudes who play Aerosmith and Guns ’n’ Roses—two bands I love dearly, thank you very much—but then expect the music (not them) to lead the class, and we all plod, plod, plod away at the same BPM for an hour. Actually, no, I stand corrected, the worst is when they command us to pump away at some other BPM than the music. Would a Zumba teacher ever tell you to dance faster or slower than the music? No!
I appreciate so many things about cycle class—the exercise, of course, but also the mental equanimity it brings. I have one of those brains that speeds, and when it’s not speeding it’s caught in a loop. Cycle makes the needle jump its groove and gives me some relief. I’m not overly sporty, and I’m about as adept with choreography as I am with, say, brain surgery, but I can do jumps on fours and eights like nobody’s business. I’m competition-averse, but eagerly imagine that I’m racing the guy next to me. And likely winning, considering how easy he seems to be taking things today, the slacker.
For an hour in cycle I get to think deep thoughts about the structure of music. Even pop music has a lot of structure, and a really skilled instructor will leverage it to make us work hard and make the time streak by. I also get to muse on personality types. In the old, less trusting days, the gyms would keep the bike seats in a padlocked locker between classes, and there was that one guy who never took a seat so he’d have to stand for the whole class. Hmm.
I became a freelancer so I’d never have to attend a meeting I didn’t myself schedule, but two or possibly three thousand times over the last twenty years I’ve gotten up at the crack of dawn, or snuck out of work early, or otherwise dragged my sorry ass to the gym for cycle class at some weird hour someone else decided on. And even when Mr. Guns ’n’ Roses is at the helm, it’s always felt like time utterly well spent mentally, not just physically. I’m sure others, sweating alongside me in the dark, trouncing me in their own imaginary races, think the same.
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And for another take on cycle class, Jimmy Fallon (thanks Lindsey for the suggestion)!
