So this is the story... I really really dislike cycling. Everything from the stationery bikes in the gym to those fancy Tour de France contraptions Jozi's fittest ride around on at stupid o' clock in the morning. Let me be clear, I have nothing against cyclists – in fact one of my favourite people is a super fit 'lawyer by day' cycling legend – I was just not born to cycle.
Five minutes on a stationery bike at the gym makes me feel like the unhealthiest, most unfit woman on the planet. I've always said that I didn't get the cycling gene. Give me a treadmill, a cross-trainer or the stairmaster anyday! I'd sooner go on an optional hike than 'think bike'.
Anyways, last Friday after a particularly good workout I let my training partner a.k.a Drill Sergeant Groenewald talk me into booking a 4:30pm spinning class the following Monday. I blame the endorphin high for my response: "Why not?"
After a weekend of too much good food, a bottle or two of chilled white wine and far too much relaxing, I woke up on Monday morning with a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach and an instant message on my blackberry reminding me of my reservation for the spinning class. Seconds later I was conjuring up very creative excuses and wrestling with the issue of 'to spin, or not to spin?'. That was the question.
By the time four o' clock rolled around I decided to stop behaving like a brat, grow a backbone and give it a go. "You only live once," I told myself. "You deserve to be tortured after the festival of second helpings you indulged in over the past 48 hours," I mumbled as I pulled on my lycra Adidas leggings and forced my chest into an over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder branded the 'Shock Absorber'.
As I sat on bike number 37 right at the back of the spinning studio I was apprehensive, to say the least. In front of me lay a sea of fit, toned, padded cycling shorts clad spinning junkies. As some of the more serious looking ones strapped gel seat covers onto their bikes and adjusted their handle bars to the perfect angle I felt a nervous sweat coming on – and we hadn't even started yet!
Then she strolled in. All five feet of lean muscle and perfectly honed curves bouncing towards the instructor's platform, glossy black ponytail swinging from side to side as her smile beamed from diamond studded ear to diamond studded ear. Her friendly demeanour aside, you could see she meant business and (perhaps more importantly) you could see that spinning (however painful) did the body good.
I felt a surge of newfound resolve – I was going to get through the 45-minute class and I was going to put all of my cellulite supporting doubts to one side. As the music started and she shouted out the first instructions I started peddling with enthusiasm...
45-minutes and several litres of sweat later I had been converted. I was as high as a kite on happy endorphines and smiling. Yip, you read that correctly – smiling. Me, the hater of all things cycling-rated, had actually had fun and burnt a gazillion calories doing it. Proof of my conversion? I've reserved bike number 37 for the 4:30pm class tomorrow. Unbelievable!
Five minutes on a stationery bike at the gym makes me feel like the unhealthiest, most unfit woman on the planet. I've always said that I didn't get the cycling gene. Give me a treadmill, a cross-trainer or the stairmaster anyday! I'd sooner go on an optional hike than 'think bike'.
Anyways, last Friday after a particularly good workout I let my training partner a.k.a Drill Sergeant Groenewald talk me into booking a 4:30pm spinning class the following Monday. I blame the endorphin high for my response: "Why not?"
After a weekend of too much good food, a bottle or two of chilled white wine and far too much relaxing, I woke up on Monday morning with a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach and an instant message on my blackberry reminding me of my reservation for the spinning class. Seconds later I was conjuring up very creative excuses and wrestling with the issue of 'to spin, or not to spin?'. That was the question.
By the time four o' clock rolled around I decided to stop behaving like a brat, grow a backbone and give it a go. "You only live once," I told myself. "You deserve to be tortured after the festival of second helpings you indulged in over the past 48 hours," I mumbled as I pulled on my lycra Adidas leggings and forced my chest into an over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder branded the 'Shock Absorber'.
As I sat on bike number 37 right at the back of the spinning studio I was apprehensive, to say the least. In front of me lay a sea of fit, toned, padded cycling shorts clad spinning junkies. As some of the more serious looking ones strapped gel seat covers onto their bikes and adjusted their handle bars to the perfect angle I felt a nervous sweat coming on – and we hadn't even started yet!
Then she strolled in. All five feet of lean muscle and perfectly honed curves bouncing towards the instructor's platform, glossy black ponytail swinging from side to side as her smile beamed from diamond studded ear to diamond studded ear. Her friendly demeanour aside, you could see she meant business and (perhaps more importantly) you could see that spinning (however painful) did the body good.
I felt a surge of newfound resolve – I was going to get through the 45-minute class and I was going to put all of my cellulite supporting doubts to one side. As the music started and she shouted out the first instructions I started peddling with enthusiasm...
45-minutes and several litres of sweat later I had been converted. I was as high as a kite on happy endorphines and smiling. Yip, you read that correctly – smiling. Me, the hater of all things cycling-rated, had actually had fun and burnt a gazillion calories doing it. Proof of my conversion? I've reserved bike number 37 for the 4:30pm class tomorrow. Unbelievable!
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