WHAT'S THAT STINK? . . .

Oh, it's me. Pardon me, I just took an hour-long spin class and managed not to die.

AND I LOVED IT. Don't listen to me when I say I'm a wimp and try to convince you that I can't handle something. Tell me to shut up and just do it.

Of course, this confidence did not develop without my fair share of sheer idiocy. Like the fact that I couldn't get my feet into the stirrups (no woman really enjoys putting her feet in stirrups) for like five minutes. But that is really so, so minor compared to the fact that it took me half the class to figure out how to pedal with my butt off the saddle without looking like a complete jackass. Seriously, I don't know what the problem was -- everyone else was doing it, so what the heck was up with me? I couldn't manage my weight distribution and I kept locking my knees straight on the down-pedal. This is painful -- I wouldn't recommend that (bad) technique to anyone. And so I kept jerking around like a mentally-impaired marionette on twisted plastic strings. And yes, once, I almost DID launch myself off the bike, for my left foot slipped out of the stirrup (grrr, I shudder at the word, even), and caught myself only at the last second, sitting back on the saddle to catch my breath and pat myself on the back for escaping death yet again.

Clearly, no matter what a powerhouse I think I am, the bottom line is, I'm still a super-klutz. So, naturally, a mere eight minutes into the class, as I'm trying to figure out how to stand and pedal at the same time with launching myself off the (stationary) bike, I'm flailing around attempting to distribute my weight in an accurate and not stupid manner to make my stand-up-pedalling smoother. And in a vain effort to restart myself and resdistribute my weight, I knock my knee into the resistance crank in the center of the bike. And naturally, I give myself a whomper of a bruise, bloody, scratchy spots and all. It's hard as a rock now, and the big bump jutting out of the side of my knee is painful to boot -- so much that it hurts to have clothing touch it, and I might have to sleep with a leg sticking out of the covers tonight. Sigh. You can put the klutz in tight bike shorts and make her sweat and give her thighs of steel, but at the end of the day, she's still a klutz, with the injuries to prove it.

But then, I had a sweaty epiphany: standing and pedalling is hard when the resistance is easy. DOI. So I cranked up the bike, pedalled to the beat, leaned forward with a fierce gritted grin on my face, ignored the throbbing pain from my crank-bruise, bent my elbows, stared at the sweat spot on the back of the lady in front of me, imagined I was going to make her eat my dust, and stood up. WORD. Down, up, down, up. Push, pull, push, pull. Slow and steady, ain't no one I need to keep up with. Plus, I didn't want to puke from over-exertion.

Now, this is not to say that I was any kind of Lance Armstrong. Please, get real. And it took me a while to build up anything even remotely resembling endurance. But, oddly, towards the end of the class, the strength really kicked in. I heard C's voice in my head urging "go, go, keep GOing." I saw Papi next to me sweatin' like his life depended on it. I saw DYC with all his tree-branch wounds in front of me and determined to catch up. And of course, I saw our instructor, her bike probably pumped up to the max, barely damp, hip-hop dancing on her bike and singing along to all the songs in full voice, yelling at me, "lookin' good! Lookin' GOOOOOOOOOD! Boo-yeah!" And so I kept going, standing, sitting, standing, sitting, increasing and increasing and increasing the crank, ignoring my burning lungs, my weakening thighs, the sweat dropping off my chin in steady rivulets of salt and water, the prodigiously annoying college kid next to me loudly heckling his friend who was using a bike halfway across the room!

I could barely get off the bike at the end. Papi had a good chuckle at me stuck half-on and half-off as the rest of the class prepared to stretch next to their machines. When I leaned over to stretch my quads, my knees locked and I couldn't unlock them. But a good stretch, a quick cold rinse of the face, and a sideways glance at myself in the locker room mirror and I felt like a meathead, wanting to pose and stare at myself and go, "GRRRRRR. YOU'RE A MONSTER, BABY."

And of course, there's one more story before I leave the gym. It's the one where I walk down the stairs to get to the exit door and my wobbly thighs start to give out. Then they give out completely, and I cling to the railing, willing my body to stop being so wimpy. Then a man going up the stairs happens to be right there and he catches me before I fall to the ground and down the steps. "Are you alright?" he asks. I look pathetically up at him, feeling much like Westley in "The Princess Bride" after he's had seventy years of life sucked out of him, and simply state, "my first spin class ever." The man nods in understanding and throws his mouth wide open for an "aaaaaah. Gotcha." I smirk at myself as I start to straighten up. "Do you need me to carry you down the rest of the way?" the man asks. "Nah, I can manage," as I wave him off. A short chuckle shared, and I slowly proceed to the exit, walking kind of bow-legged to ease the pressure on my thigh muscles.

Three hours later, I'm still alive. My lungs are still protesting a bit, and I just ate an ice cream sandwich (which, I truly believe, only replenished a mere quarter of the calories I burned today). I'm all clean and not stinky anymore. I'm full and shortly will be sleepy. I'm totally satisfied and proud and loving the sensation of my muscles still feeling hot to the touch.

I'M A MONSTER, BABY.

Post-script: exercising my lungs as much as I did today did wonders for my singing capabilities. I was Bono on the car ride home. Check it.