As soon as I looked at the website I realized this was not something I would ever, ever, ever think to do on my own. However, the shit that I think of on my own has so far resulted in great wastes of time, so I'm trying new things.
The first clue that something might be amiss is that "clip in" shoes are required. Now, this is important, so we're gonna go into it. You may not be familiar with clip in shoes. I shall explain. First, you need to know that you could have a long and healthy cycling career, taking a real bicycle over almost every possible surface of the earth without ever using or even touching clip ins. That isn't enough for some people. Some people think its fun to ride up a mountain. Some people think its fun to have a bike called a Fixed Gear, a bike with only one gear and which lacks the ability to coast (so if the wheel is moving, the pedal is moving; the pedal cannot stay still), such that it is either extremely difficult to pedal or nearly impossible to keep up with. You'll probably never see one, because the only people in the universe who ride them are engineers, bike nerds, and hipsters. People who ride up mountains, or on Fixed Gears....they are the people that need clip ins. Clip ins actually fasten your shoe to the pedal, such that you can pull directly up with your foot and you will pull the pedal. Having the ability to pull on the upstroke while your other foot is pushing on the downstroke adds some extra power, and/or lets everyone know that you are a major douchebag. It also makes it really hard to get off the bike if you get doored, so wear some fucking pants. Actually just watch the 1986 film "Quicksilver." It will tell you everything you need to know.
Fake bicycles should not need clip ins.
At Soul Caliber (again, not its real name), clip ins are mandatory. Foreshadowing: that was the clue.
The next warning sign was how much of a production they make out of everything. We have to arrive early to make sure that they hold the reservation on our fake bike. (In case you're wondering: the fake bikes are numbered.) Its like all of the overhead of a fancy ass restaurant. Except we're just sitting on fake bikes together.
Anyway, so my nurse friend told me that this was just so cool and its all dark and they have a DJ talking at you. I thought that sounded lame, but I was told there would be girls there and as of a few weeks ago, stepping outside of my comfort zone is my new thing. I have a painting to prove it. I mean, who knows...if I try enough new things...something. Whatever. I figured worst case scenario, I'd just bike a little to music and ignore whatever the guy was saying.
Anyway, so the locker room is like...coed, with male and female showers off to the side. There was a sign saying "change at your discretion" but I surmised by everyone else's behavior that "at your discretion" really means "leave all your valuables in your unlocked locker while you change your pants in the shower room." And I really didn't have a choice, because the boxers I happened to be wearing have so many holes and tears in them they were, literally, coming apart at the seams. Well, seam. The one at the top. Like this pair is just one washing away from becoming a two piece. It never mattered before because other males in locker rooms aren't people. But I digress.
So I was a bit late. Then, since it was my first time, this girl had to show me how to sit on the fake bicycle. I'm not kidding. And I'm....I would not have figured it out on my own. There were like four different adjustments that had to be made, and each one involved measuring one of my body parts. She even had to clip in my fucking clip in shoes to the pedals for me, like I was five. And I wouldn't have figured that one out, either, because I never want to wear clip ins on any bike. If I've wearing clip ins, and its not to impress a girl who I am fucking or am about to fuck that night, I have failed.
So I'm finally on the bike, and... in the spirit of tumblr I will use a reaction gif (actually its a video) to show how my growing horror as I realized that the "DJ" was actually a fitness instructor who was going to make us do all kinds of gay shit on the bike:
Ladies and gentlemen, the reason you clip in to the stupid fucking fake bikes at Soul Caliber is because you aren't there to cycle. You are there to sort of...dance...or something...on your bicycle. In a manner that burned out my quads in 60 seconds. I thought of leaving but something inside of me screamed that I couldn't quit...something about if I can get a license to fly a plane I should be able to survive one gay-ass spin class. So I spent the rest of the class doing my best to look like I was doing what they were doing. It was awful. It was worse than dancing with a dude. In fact, the next time I am forced to dance with a dude I'm just gonna grab his gross-ass, sweaty, disgusting body and count my lucky stars I'm not in a fucking spin class.
It was a nearly empty class; I had picked a bike in the back. The girl showing me how to use the fake bike asked if I wanted to move up since it was such an empty class; I told her it was fine, and later, I was very glad. A column of mirror partially hid me from the DJ/instructor. The instructor (whose skinny ass body convinced me that cycling is not the path to having the body I want) singled me out at one point, maybe to ask if I was ok or whatever. I narrowly avoided flipping him off. Words can't describe how much I hate a person who spends an hour effusing corny, upbeat excitement about people doing super gay shit together as a form of exercise. I have never been to a fitness/workout class. This spin class was everything I feared it would be. It was so bad that for the first time in my life "this dick aint gonna suck itself" was no longer a sufficient motivation. The only thing that kept me going was a desire to not quit something. I don't know why--I often quit drinking a beer as soon as I taste the shit. Anyway, if going to spin classes is what it takes to get a girlfriend, I'd rather die alone. Also at one point my heart felt like it was on the verge of tachycardia (sadly, I know exactly what that feels like), so I might have gotten my wish sooner than I thought.
In fact, all forms of Group Exercise in Rooms are going to the bottom of the list (yeah, there really is a list; 14 items and growing). Sadly, this includes pretty much all of the suggestions that have come from actual girls. Most of my female friends are always recommending these incredibly inconvenient group activities that involve doing athletic shit in rooms with other people, but without a ball or a net or anything cool. Its like they've taken sports, removed the fun part, and constructed classes based on whats left. And the stupid-ass enthusiasm is even worse. Why do they have to act so fucking excited about nothing? I'd like to go to a spin class lead by a monotone, tattooed, goth girl with a bad smoking habit who ends every session by saying "see you losers next week...if I haven't killed myself by then." That's a fucking spin class I would go to!
I wish that I could just go somewhere and meet girls by like, playing Warhammer. No one ever has to leave all their stuff in a smelly, overcrowded and old-man-dick filled locker room just to play war with some silly painted action figures. Or nerdy board games, or poker, or video games, or like...fuck it...origami. Or maybe like a fireplace class. I bet you could make a class on fireplaces. How to build them. How to use them. Their history. Can't we just go somewhere and drink and watch fires burn and hear about, like, ancient fireplace design? "Oh yeah these old inhabitants of this motte-and-bailey castle used to burn everything in the middle of the room. It burned down and they all died! So now we put fires in fireplaces! Now over here you can see the evolving French design...."
And I would just sip my whiskey, stroke my chin and go "Hmmm....fireplaces. Interesting." And then me and a girl would sneak off to go fuck in front of one, our bodies intertwined on a rug made of the decadently soft fur of the rare Snow Panda. Happily ever after. The end.
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