Spinning!

“Push the tempo, push the tempo, push the tempo” - pounded the rhythmic dance beat 35 minutes into the class. My heart was pounding, my legs ached, continue or quit . . .

How do you describe the exhilarating feeling of strength from a workout that pushes you beyond the limits of what you’ve convinced yourself you cannot do?

“We’re climbing a hill, add resistance, out of the saddle, Attack, Attack, Attack!” belted the trainer! This little woman is a powerhouse! Whoa - how is this possible, to maintain such a high cadence and still retain the ability to talk? I am impressed!

“Stay in the moment, everything is about right now - focus. As a team we can do this, stay on pace.” The muscles in my legs burned. This was far beyond routine cycling, an explosion of speed and power. Try it - go ahead, challenge yourself, I dare you, Spinning Class.

“Back in the saddle, slow down, feel the road, recover.” Once this session starts you’re committed to an hour of what most would consider pure torture - I’m sure of it, however if you can go the distance an overwhelming feeling of accomplishment permeates your spirit. This was our third 7:30 a.m. spinning session - trepidation, thats an understatement, its more like terror. I’ve done this before, I can do it again today, just pedal, don’t think!

“Focus on the beat of the music, the music will drive your pace, are you ready? Add resistance, one full turn, out of the saddle, Attack, Attack, Attack!” How is this possible? This woman is relentless. "Power up this third big hill, push it. Together we're getting stronger."

"You'll love this next part, let's recover then we sprint - ready, go! As fast as you can, this pace for 90 seconds, keep it going, thats it, stay the distance - relax, recover.” My legs are burning, recover?

Get the idea? Spinning class pushes your limits of endurance developing strength, speed, determination, and personal power. You think you’re in shape, join us some time for a humbling experience.

Can’t wait till the next session!

Comments

The Gopher Problem and the High Powered Solution

Vacationing in Maine this week, just a short drive down the coast from Freeport, it is hard not to think about the outsized impact one frustrated outdoorsman had on the gear we all use today. Bad equipment can ruin a perfectly good day on the water or the trail, but it takes a special kind of vision to turn cold feet into a century-old empire. This is the story of the company we now know as L.L.Bean, but more importantly, it is a masterclass in integrity, learning from failure, and standing behind your work. In 1912, Leon Leonwood Bean faced a persistent problem: returning from expeditions in the Maine woods with cold, wet feet. Instead of complaining, he got creative. He had a local shoemaker stitch waterproof rubber soles onto the flexible leather uppers of a hunting boot. He called it the Maine Hunting Shoe and mailed a flyer promising perfect satisfaction. Then reality arrived. Ninety of his first 100 pairs failed when the rubber separated from the leather. Not an effective product...

On Becoming Real

Some things get better with wear: old shoes, old friendships, and old books. Especially old books. A new volume arrives with crisp corners and a spine that hasn’t yet learned to bend. An old one has been somewhere. It has traveled through time in the hands of people who may no longer be around to tell us what they found inside. The copy of The Velveteen Rabbit (first published in 1922) on my desk is one of those books. My friend Don Hanley gave it to me. This late-1950s Doubleday edition features William Nicholson’s original illustrations and cream paper boards softened by age. Worn corners, a split spine, and colored tabs mark passages worth revisiting. Don didn’t hand me a keepsake. He gave me homework. When we talked about the book recently, he pointed me straight to the nursery conversation between a young rabbit and an old Skin Horse. The rabbit had noticed the mechanical toys around him—the ones with internal gears, bright paint, and stick-out handles that seem terribly impressiv...

Engineering Beef Stew

On July 2nd—Day Two of what I call The Great Un-Working —I sat down with my morning notebook to map out this new chapter of my life. One goal made the list in bold ink: Learn to Cook. At seventy, I was adding a skill most people master before they’re old enough to drive. Before you judge me, understand our household ecosystem. Lori is a phenomenal cook. For decades, she’s made meals so effortless and delicious that restaurants seem unsatisfying . My contribution to the culinary arts during my bachelor years–tuna mixed into Kraft Mac & Cheese. Let’s just say I wasn’t threatening her spot on the Food Network. But retirement changed the equation. I’m officially off the clock while Lori is still working. And I had a lovely thought: Wouldn’t it be wonderful if she came home after a long day to find dinner waiting? She loved the idea. Then came the question that haunted me for weeks: “What do you want to make?” I had no idea. Apparently, the first step in learning to cook is deciding wh...

When the Universe Calls in Sick

Take Thoreau’s Advice . . . Four weeks ago, we stood on the shore of Walden Pond in Concord, Massachusetts, trying to channel Henry David Thoreau. Before leaving, I bought a pocket-sized copy of his essay, Walking . It’s slim because nineteenth-century transcendentalists didn’t have notifications interrupting their urge to wander. Thoreau’s counsel is disarmingly simple: step away from modern life's machinery and let the landscape recalibrate your perspective. Back home in Vista, I took that philosophy straight into the backyard. Thursday morning, ink-black, pristine skies arrived. I aimed my refractor at Jupiter, whose light has bathed Earth since mastodons roamed the plains. It felt cosmic. Profound . I left the telescope mounted overnight, convinced the heavens were on retainer for an encore at daybreak. Naturally, the universe called in sick. By sunrise, a wall of coastal fog had rolled in off the Pacific, sealing the valleys beneath a damp, gray Tupperware lid. After about th...

On The Fly

Search This Blog