I signed my husband, Fred, daughter Krista and I up for a family “Spinning” class at the YMCA. It sounded mild enough and fun for togetherness. Krista is a kid and Fred, a former college athlete, who is accustomed to “work-out-till-you-barf” sessions is never going to admit that anything labeled "family" is anything more than a "stretch." I’m the only one who has to worry about being in shape. But, I'm ready. I can ride a bike; I can do cardio classes. Best of all, thanks to my sedentary job—I am well prepared me for a 45-minute session of sitting on a bicycle seat. If nothing else—I am an experienced sitter.
“Spinning” bike seats are nothing like my bouncy desk chair or my couch. “Spinning Seats” are comically small, oddly shaped and feel like limestone. The longer I sat on it, the more I couldn't ignore a certain part of my anatomy. After approximately 3 minutes of shifting and wincing, I starting to experience the “Where does the seat think IT’S going?” phenomenon. Day-dreaming of a fanny-sized ice pack was the only thing that pushed me onward. I felt like one of those Snow Monkeys you see at the zoo with the red backsides everyone thinks hurt.
For a bike class, we did an awful lot of standing too. At one point, I concluded that the only thing worse than “Sit-Down” biking was “Stand-Up” biking. Then there’s the 'adjusting-the-bike-tension-to-make-it-harder' element. After an especially hard “Up-Hill” routine at a Level 4 difficulty--
“Your tension clamps aren’t even touching the wheel,” Fred pointed out.
When the class concluded, I walked C3PO-style to my car; C3POed into the house and headed straight for a hot bath. It was there that my leg muscles stiffened and knotted. For the next 4 days, ablaze with “Ben Gay,” I alternately iced and heated my upper thighs and used the "I don't care how much it looks like a sex-toy" heated massage wand almost constantly. Still, I was crippled...definitely
Anticipating class #2, I decided to seek some posterior relief. I heard about padded biking pants and shopped...and shopped. None could be found in my size. Perhaps market research conducted by the “Padded-Pants” manufacturers suggest that chubby girls have their own padding. Even if I do have "junk in my trunk"—"junk" still has NERVE ENDINGS!
Rejected substitutions to Padded Pants included:
1. Sitting on an actual pillow (which would never have stayed put)
2. Stuffing a pillow IN my pants, which might work (but, do I really have so little ego left?)
3. Unscrewing my desk chair seat, bringing it into class and shoving it into the peg hole.
How do you toughen yourself up? Is there some abrasive “Pre-Spinning Class” underwear? Inquiring minds (with “Spinner’s Butt”) NEED to know.