Spin Class

Jesse’s chest heaved up and down in violent fashion. Each breath like a bellow that had its own bass tone. Her skin was slick and gritty with sweat and salt. Jesse moved her eyes up to stare at her cycling instructor and simultaneously pressed her palms into the bike handles harder to get her butt in the air and get more momentum into her feet. The pace of the petals responded. Sweat dripped down her temple and Jesse shook her head so the sweat would find a path away from her open mouth.

Michaela, the ever-enthusiastic cycle instructor, noticed.

“Hell yeah Jesse! Way to push!” Jesse smiled in return. An animalistic immediate smile. In these moments, Jesse felt like a predator in the best way. In the way women often aren’t allowed to feel, but she felt nonetheless. She drove harder and checked her burned calories. Jesse tracked her stats every cycle class. She wanted to be on top of the leader board this week and today felt like the day. It was all she cared about from 5:30am-6:30am every Tuesday and Thursday morning. Currently, spin class was one of the only places Jesse felt agency and pride. She needed it more than ever.

Mardi felt like she was going to vomit. Two seconds later she decided she was going to faint instead. In the second that followed, when the instructor, Michaela, gave the signal to stand on the bike, Mardi thought she might do both simultaneously. She got up anyway. She stood and pushed her feet as fast as they would go. Following the birth of her twin daughters, spin class had been the only form of exercise that Mardi could stick to. There was something about the women, the lack of surveillance, and the pop music that played that allowed her to show up and not feel consumed by the grief over her body. At least, initially, that was her experience. In the past year and half Mardi rarely felt grief. Slowly she had come to terms with her widened hips, stretch marks, and accepted the fact that she was in the best shape of her life. To her dismay, being in the best shape of her life also meant resembling a linebacker. She was toned and defined and wide bodied. She provided contrast to the lean nimble women she spun with.

Over the last 7 months especially, Mardi had developed a sense of confidence on her bike. She didn’t enjoy it per se, but she usually felt better about herself, her day, her life, when she left. In fact, she hated climbing hills and work that was spin. Mardi probably would not have continued with Spin if there wasn’t so much external stimulus that distracted her from the acid reflux that showed up if she had too much coffee pre-class. She felt like a work horse powerful, determined, and not designed for show.

Despite her commitment to spin, Mardi didn’t really have friends in the class. Not really, people would say good work and exchange pleasantries but the 20-something-pilates attending women were not “her people.” Her people were the forty-something men her husband befriended for football games, moms of other young children, and church families she sat with on Sundays.

Sometimes Mardi was jealous of the 20 somethings in their Lululemon sets and perfect ponytails and she wondered what it felt like to be dainty and confident and work a corporate finance job. Sometimes that jealousy pushed Mardi harder in class. Today was one of those days. She felt it. She was going to win today and be on the leaderboard. She wanted to feel good at something after the last couple years of all-consuming motherhood. She had quit her job, a luxury and a loss, she had stopped going to happy hours, stopped sexy dancing in the mirror when ovulating. She also knew that her husband had shifted. He looked at people that resembled these younger women. His eyes never lingered on her breasts and his fingers didn’t trace her outline in the way he had before the twins. She didn’t hate it, but she definitely didn’t like it. She also took accountability for her lack of effort, but hey if she couldn’t get laid she could absolutely spin for an hour twice a week. It was a different kind of ride. Her world had shifted, but today she could win at spin if she tried hard enough and she would do it in ratty sweatpants and fruit of the loom t-shirt.

Michaela turned the music down and asked everyone to lower their resistance.

“Mardi and Jesse are neck and neck! Who wants it more ladies?” Michaela’s voice was strong but strained. These classes were hard on her too. “One song left, give it your all! Let’s go. Turn your dials to the left two notches and move those feet!”

Jesse’s heart fell into her stomach. She knew Mardi was in the back of the class. They were always in the same class. Only Mardi sometimes ran late, was less consistent than she was, and always looked like she had just rolled out of bed. Jesse, by contrast, kept up with her french manicures, was always 10 minutes early to class to get the bike she liked, and never cried unless it was absolutely unavoidable. For a moment her zeal disappeared and she felt close to tears. She swallowed the lump that had risen in her throat, told herself to stop being a little bitch and turned her dial. All the while a Brittany Spears remix played.

Jesse was determined to make herself into someone she respected. Someone that was in stark contrast to her parents. Quietly neglectful people that lived a small, albeit violent life together in Kansas. People who didn’t exercise, have ambition, or understand the desire for more the way that Jesse always wanted more. Jesse had stopped talking to her father seven years ago when she realized after all the therapy she was paying for hadn’t changed her parents. He was still misogynistic and could not conceptualize why his daughter had ever wanted to leave. He also never stopped drinking. Usually, Jesse wasn’t bothered by this but since she learned about his passing from pancreatic cancer the day prior, she’d spent her whole evening thinking about him. Nearly, crying about him and then wondering why she cared at all. She had been looking forward to spin. Despite her emotional state she wanted normalcy. She wanted her thighs to burn. She wanted to feel whatever the good job, extreme discipline, and baby Botox was supposed to provide. Only she wasn’t exactly sure what that was. Anger and heat prickled at her neck.

“10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1… Annnnd Done!” Michael yelled. “Nice work ladies! Everyone crushed it, but on top of today’s leaderboard we have Jesse!”

Jesse turned her bike down and threw her fist in the air. Triumphant and exhausted.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me!” Mardi’s exasperated quiver came from the back of the room. Without the music her voice had carried further and was louder than was anticipated. Mardi immediately felt panic and flushed in her face. Jesse turned, locked eyes with Mardi, whispered “bitch,” and immediately burst into tears.