Oompa Loompa

After about two minutes of sitting on the stationary-bike seat, my sit bones were already screaming for mercy, and I hadn't even started peddling yet! The awful seat was hard, small, and narrow--the exact opposite of my rear end. I wasn't going to wimp out, though.

The instructor walked in. She was small and lean, with a short ponytail and a tight, blue tank-top. She took one look at me, perching awkwardly on my bike, and said, "You're new!"

Uh... Yeah, but is it that obvious? She walked over to the corner where my bike was located and started adjusting the height of my seat and the position of my handlebars. She kept measuring the angles of my legs and arms, raising a little here, sliding forward a little there. For some reason, she just couldn't adjust that bike satisfactorily.

I finally had to explain to her, "If you haven't already noticed, my body isn't proportionate." She stepped back and observed as I stretched out my stubby legs and arms for her viewing.

"As you can see here, my arms barely reach past my waist, which is too long for my legs, which start lower than you'd think and end sooner than you'd calculate normal. I guess I'm sorta shaped like an Oompa Loompa--those short, stubby folks that work in Willie Wonka's Chocolate Factory (you know the ones). In fact there may not be a setting on this bike that can accommodate my abnormalities."

I could tell the instructor accepted that dismal conclusion, because she sighed and said, "Well, the way we've got it now is pretty good. Are you comfortable?"

"Sure!" Woops, I lied. What are you thinking, lady?! Am I comfortable? My behind is throbbing, and there is no relief! My own weight is constantly smashing my sensitive sit-bones into a rock-hard sliver-of-a-seat! And you wonder if I'm comfortable! I still was NOT going to wimp out.

With one, last, quizzical glance at me (smiling awkwardly, spinning my stubby little legs around and around on the peddles, and giving her a trembling thumbs-up), she grabbed the stereo remote, leaped astride her stationary-bike and started class.

"Alright, Welcome to Spin class! Everybody find a light but steady pace and warm up for a few minutes."

Okay, I can do this. I peddled casually at the easiest resistance level. It was great! I was almost starting to forget about my sore bottom. Then I glanced around the room at everyone else. If we had been on real bikes, riding down the road, then I would have been left in a cloud of dust, miles behind the rest of the class. Everyone else's legs were churning and spinning so fast, all I could see were rippling quads and flying Nike swooshes going around and around in a blur. With a grunt I picked up my pace.

After we warmed up, the instructor had us all take our pulse for about five seconds.

"Now, after a good warm-up you should be at about an eleven or twelve. Start counting... now." She held two fingers to her neck and looked at the watch on her other wrist. After about five seconds, she said, "Stop. Were you up where you need to be?" She turned to me, "What did you get?"

I wiped about a pint of perspiration off my face, and between wheezing gasps for oxygen, I said, "Six... (gasp) teen..." Sweat continued to drip off the tip of my nose and drench my t-shirt.

"Well... You're a little high, but THAT'S OKAY!" She turned back to the rest of the class and started to explain the evening's workout. We were going to do an interval endurance ride. Sounded lethal to me.

The intervals corresponded with the music tracks. For one song we rode light and fast, then for the next song we cranked up the resistance and rode hard and steady. We did some songs standing up, some up then down then up again, and then back to light and fast. I tried the best I could and made it to the end (barely).

By the time we'd cooled down and dismounted our bikes to stretch out, my Redskin Weightlifting Club t-shirt was soaked and so was the backside of my pants. My legs were wobbly; I tried to stretch them best I could. The instructor came over and asked me what I thought of the class.

"Well... I haven't been on a bike since I was probably 12, so it was a little challenging, but just a little. I'm a weightlifter!" I told her, pointing to my t-shirt, trying to make myself appear less of a weakling. "I'm not used to the whole bike riding thing. I usually bench-press bikes. Motorbikes. That's probably why my arms are so stubbed down. Having short limbs is actually beneficial in the weight room, if you didn't know... Well, thanks for the class!" I turned and headed for the door, leaving a stream of sweat-drippings behind me.

She called after me, "Will you be back? It only gets better from here!"

I could only imagine what "better" might entail. Oh, what the heck! "Yeah! I'll be back!" And with that, I shuffled my aching buttocks out the door.