This blog is overdue. Seventeen days overdue. March was a thing, right?
SO. Let’s cast our minds back. My challenge for March was to spin. Yup, get over the fear and onto a spin bike. Being firmly in the knowledge that the countdown has well and truly begun for Ride the Night, I figured spinning would aid some “training cheating” if there ever was such a thing. Turns out, no surprises, there isn’t.
Before March, I’d been to one spin class (don’t get your hopes up, this figure hasn’t exactly rapidly grown). I do know my way around a bike, my favorite ‘what you don’t know about me’ fact I peddle in those wonderful team building games we all know and love is that I was once the Welsh Cross County Champion. Once. For like 12 months. When I was ten, maybe eleven. But still, IT COUNTS, IT COUNTS DAMN IT. I still have the calve muscles to prove it.
I also infamously once cycled the Lake Vyrnwy bikeathon on a raging hangover, the type you get when you are young and foolish when it comes to your drink choices. It also coincided with the end of my six month chemotherapy treatment. My mother recalls that I went very silent and refused to speak to her other than to sporadically shout “I’M GOING TO TELL THE ST JOHNS PEOPLE THAT YOU MADE ME DO THIS AFTER CHEMO AND YOU’LL BE THE WORST MOTHER IN THE WORLD”. I didn’t, though I was tempted.
So you’d probably think a spin class is a walk in the park. It wasn’t, isn’t and never will be. I can’t complain about the spin-aholics, though I maintain that it is weird to own SPDs (shoes that clip to your bike, largely worn by masochists, myself included) that don’t have any mud on them. It was the instructor who was a bit of a, well, let’s just say, dick? Put simply, no one deserves in their VERY FIRST SPIN CLASS to have the instructor point at their eyes, then at your eyes, then at your little turny weight adding wheel thing, Meet the Fockers stylee.
BUT. In March I did, true to my word go to a spin class. I’ve since changed gyms so after a very nervous telephone conversation with a gym instructor who assured me that “no, the Instructor won’t look at you in the eyes if you prefer that he didn’t” and “no, you won’t die” off I headed. And the class was great. The group were super friendly, the instructor was fantastic and even went as far as to check that I wasn’t actually dying, generally making the 45 minutes bearable.
And I have not once been back. I feel awful, the instructor was so good than I even went to hunt him down after the class to tell him how good he was. I bet he thinks I was lying. Well, Mister Instructor, if you’re reading this I wasn’t.
I’ve been extraordinarily busy. Like really busy. Not the type of busy where you think “she’s totally being dramatic, she can’t have been that busy”, but like proper, balls to the wall busy. BUT, having grabbed myself a new qualification and landed a new job, times are a-changing. Mister Instructor, I will be back.
For those of you who are counting, you may have realised that leaves me less than 6 weeks to train for my little bike ride. One week of which I am on holibobs, aka. soaking myself in so much sangria that spinning talk is a long distant memory. But I’ll do it. I know I will do it. Why? Because while I am not the fittest and not well prepared (you could argue, at all prepared), I am stubborn and I am determined and I am strong and I am also apparently a sucker for punishment.