Yeah, You. You're Dead.

Now, I love Puffins just as much as anyone could possibly love their gay best friend. But I say with the utmost conviction and without a tinge of remorse that after last Saturday's Spin Class at the Equinox I could have killed him. If I could have moved quickly enough, that is.

As part of his birthday gift, Puff requested that Nan-the-blogless-Porkchop join him at Spin Class. Somehow, and I'm not quite sure how or when, I was also roped into tagging along. We could miss any and all of the rest of the birthday, he claimed, as long as we went to Spin.

The stationary bike is part of my gym routine, so I am not unfamiliar with its mechanisms. I get a pretty decent workout from it; my ass and hamstrings usually burn a little by the end of my set. Nothing - let me emphasize this a little more clearly - NOTHING!!!! - could have prepared me for my first Spin Class.

Will, the tall blonde, obviously gay instructor, walked into the room crammed with 50 bikes, floor to ceiling, wall to wall mirrors. Fastening his headset to his noggin, he turned the lights off. All you can hear is soft whirring of bikers peddling. The music is turned up. And we're off.

Move to the beat. Back-forth-back-forth-side-side-side-move-to the beat-push it-push it-push-it. I'm sweating like a pig as he declares DOUBLE TIME. One two-one two-one two. And he says the dreaded words: take it up. For you non-spinners, this means get off your ass and feel the lactic acid pump through your muscles, out your pores and trickle down your face until you taste nothing but salt.

Some thoughts went through my mind:

1) Heeeeeyyy...sweat burns your eyes.
2) Puff is dead.
3) No, seriously. I'm going to kill him.
4) Slowly.
5) Fuck you, double-time!
6) Sadistic mother $(*&W&$(!

Forty. Five. Minutes. Of. Pure. Hell.

I pictured myself falling flat on my face trying to dismount my torture device at the end of class. Then I pictured wringing Will's neck until he was purple. But I was way too tired.