The Spin Society by Rachel Moscovich

At the Spin Society, the room is dark, the music cranked, the bass pulses. The dank air is infused with the scent of rich people’s body odor: a medley of jock-strap, pomade, and essential oils. Seated on a bike at the front of the room is Andre, the instructor: a glistening, muscular, smoothie-fueled realtor-by-day, indoor-cycling-guru-and-motivational-speaker-by-night.

Andre is warming up, sprinting casually at 140 RPMs, while shuffling songs on his iPod. He clips on his mic, his booming voice filling the room.

“ARE YOU READY?? WE’VE GOT 45 MINUTES TOGETHER. I WANT YOU TO GIVE IT ALL YOU’VE GOT!!”

Andre’s shiny, taut, and deeply grooved thighs are spring-loaded. Thrusting his hips off the bike seat, he leans forward, balls resting on the handlebars, and hollers:

“ASK YOURSELF: WHAT IS YOUR PURPOSE TODAY?”

I roll my eyes, privately scoffing at the group fitness ethos – at the idea that there’s a purpose to us being here beyond raising our heart rates and sweating. I may have slid into the subculture of spin, but I’m not trying to be part of a tribe, nor do I believe there’s any spiritual benefit to gathering in the dark on stationary bikes, lined up in rows like a Lululemon army.

My mind rebels, but my body complies. I up the tension on my bike and start to spin my legs.

“WHY DID YOU COME HERE? WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO OVERCOME? BECAUSE I WANT YOU TO KNOW, YOU ARE ALL STRONG AND YOU ARE ENOUGH!”

We begin our first climb and I squint to take in my fellow riders – this legion of lycra-clad models – wondering genuinely what they’re trying to overcome. Those last two pounds? That they didn’t get invited to Cindy and Jeff’s wedding?

It’s my reflex to judge, though I’ve no doubt there are real issues in the room: broken hearts, body dysmorphia, abuse, a horrible boss. They all just seem so motherfucking fine. They seem like spin class is a stop between Whole Foods and a hot date. Which is actually kind of what my day looks like, but only after hours of therapy, blood tests, and life-or-death decisions. I always judge people the hardest when they remind me of me.

But unlike the others, I’m not blowing off steam after work. I’m not working at all, because I’m being treated for two cancers. I’m on a clinical trial for one, and I’m on a break between two surgeries for the other.

I’m enduring an emotional hellscape, but the physical part’s not so bad. I don’t appear to be suffering; I’m strong and fed and have all my hair. I easily pass for healthy. Legs pumping in sync with the music, I look like everyone else, but feel like an outsider.

So I mentally set myself apart, even as I’m present in body: I’m not one of them. I don’t buy in. If I believe I’m superior, I can avoid the creeping feeling that I’m flawed, or that, for the first time in my life, I would kill to be ordinary.

“REPEAT AFTER ME: I AM ENOUGH!”

Andre’s spit droplets fly, illuminated by the pulsing strobe.

“I am enough —”

My voice catches as I shout in unison with the spandex choir.

A lump rises in my throat and shame washes over me as I fall victim to this performance of awakening. I want Andre’s trite phrases to sound as meaningless as they would to a person who has no problems. I want to be able to say: Who, me? Get emo in spin class? Pfft, as if.

But the feelings rush in, hitchhiking on the backs of my amped up endorphins. Anger and grief at this situation I can’t outpace colliding with joy and gratitude for the mindfuck of it all: that my body can still do this. The opposite of dying is sob-yelling along to “It’s Raining Men” whilst maxing out one’s glutes and lungs to ascend a made-up hill.

As we approach the fake summit, and I huff the exhalations of so many believers, I berate myself for being vulnerable to self-actualization, realizing that in actuality, maybe I need it. Maybe that’s why Andre moonlights as an instructor: because at his core, at his tremendously toned core, he wants to help people because he knows we need it.

At the Spin Society, it’s dark enough that nobody can see you cry.

Image Credit: Flickr Creative Commons/Thomas Quine