Last night I crawled home from my first workout class in nearly ten years. If I had stopped to think, spinning would not have been my first choice. Yet it was at a good time, and there was a bike available, so I joined.
Did I mention I haven't taken an actual workout class in nearly ten years and that I have not done anything at all as far at workouts go, in nearly as many months?
After ten minutes I could taste blood, after twenty I thought I was going to die, and after twenty-five I wished I was. And after thirty minutes I realized that I wasn't dead yet, and that although my legs were burning, my stomach was on it's way up into my mouth, and every breath hurt, my legs were still moving, it was still possible to keep going. So I did. For the full hour.
We ended the class by sprinting to Freebird. Well, I'll be honest, the others did. I plodded slowly on my bike, grateful that it was finally coming to an end. But I kept moving the entire class, and I am very proud of myself.
Sweet mother of mercy, I hurt. Thank god for endorphins!
There's another new spinning class again Thursday, and I'll probably go, because this was fun. I'm hoping they'll play Freebird again.
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