The last time my heart beat this fast, I was 17 and Justin Timberlake had just brought sexy back. Since then my taste in men has vastly improved, but not my judgment in exercise regimes.
So Ricardo Pillay, complete with upbeat music, is spinning around in front of the class and all I can think about is why am I not still in bed?
The last time my heart beat this fast, I was 17 and Justin Timberlake had just brought sexy back. Since then my taste in men has vastly improved, but not my judgment in exercise regimes.
So Ricardo Pillay, complete with upbeat music, is spinning around in front of the class and all I can think about is why am I not still in bed?
It’s 6am on a Monday morning and the Rhodes gym is offering free workout sessions for the first two
weeks of term to entice the first years into running up their student accounts with subscription fees.
I never fell for that in first year, probably because I didn’t care much for sport, but this year I declared my year of good health (some would say with four years at Rhodes, it’s about time) and in allegiance with
this decision I went spinning. And I nearly didn’t return.
While my boyfriend is quite keen for me to get exercise he thought that spinning was pointless. “What’s the use of cycling like hell, yet staying in one place?” he cried.
I vehemently declared I would prove him wrong. But I didn’t. I was hot and sweaty and uncomfortable and my feet would not stay in the stirrups.
I nearly died, but I’m a very stubborn person and I vowed I would not quit, at least not for the next 45 minutes of the session.
Everyone in front and behind me was spinning their heads off, all the while grinning like Cheshire cats on crack.
They all seemed to be enjoying it so much that I started to feel bad about my aversion to being red and sweaty.
It was not bad per se, I just think for someone with my body shape and fragmented attention span I need to do something less boring and physically demanding than spinning. Maybe next year I’ll have a go at Pilates.
