I had never attended a spin class before moving here, but
given the discomfort of riding through the city in winter (you’re still gambling
with your life even in the most glorious of spring conditions), I decided to
give it a try. Now I am a weekly regular.
The energy and spontaneous dance moves of the spin
instructors at my gym are truly uplifting. However, there was one drill
sergeant woman who, rather than shout motivating axioms in coherent English
(“YOU CAN DO IT!” “THERE’S MORE IN YOU!” “FASTER!” etc) would grunt loudly into
her face mic, sounding not unlike an angry predator having sex (“HEF! HEF! GAH!
GAAAAH! AW … SHIT! GEF! HEH!”).
The “Aw shits” were especially charming, and
only vaguely indicative that she had any idea she was supposed to be teaching a
class and not having her own lung-busting workout. After experiencing her class
twice (giving it a second try because I had convinced myself the woman was just
overwhelmed with psychological problems during that first class and not
believing it could possibly be her MO) vowed never again to go to her class.
Thankfully she is no longer instructing.
This morning’s class was taught by a sexy accented hulk of
Latin origins. We’ll call him Mateo. He is perfectly sculpted (not that I’m
into that sort of thing, but it does make the whole experience more pleasant)
and has a way of shouting out numbers over the maxed out pounding club tunes that
is almost indecipherable but perfectly fine because he’s aware of it and starts
pantomiming while off his bike, shaking his ass and marching around the room.
Of course I have also been pedaling outside and my last
adventure involved attempting to ride to the industrial wasteland of College
Point (that has nothing to do with higher education at all and is in fact one
of the city’s ugliest areas). It was actually a very enjoyable ride – down
breezy residential streets in Corona and East Elmhurst and over Grand Central
on a pedestrian bridge that spits you out directly in front of Laguardia
Airport. From there you ride on a spacious and empty promenade along the water,
which unfortunately reeks like hundreds of years worth of hepatitis-infused
sewer waste. Once I reached the end of the promenade near the Worlds Fair
Marina the only options were to ride up a variety of on-ramps into blaring
horns and bumper-to-bumper traffic. Google Maps’ highlighted bicycle route
failed to clarify this.
The destination was never quite crossed off my list, but there
will be other attempts. To other parts of the city hopefully less armpit-like.
The shockingly disparate (from interesting and relatively pleasant to
sludge-infested and death-defying) cycling options are endless here. And there
is always spin class to fall back on.
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