Not to go on about Spinning, but...

There is no better Spinning image than this

Regular attendees of The Shouter's Spinning Class know that if you arrive late, you won't make the cut. All the spaces will be taken. You'll be left outside, bike-free, with nothing more than your own motivation between you and slobbery. 

Even traditionally early is not early enough. For a 7.15 start the class will be full by five past seven. One advantage of this is that if you're not really feeling up to it, you can turn up at 7.13 and tell yourself that it's not your fault that you just can't fit into the class, before returning to your Haagen-Dazs. Others are not so sanguine, and there have been aggressive scenes from those anticipating but deprived some sadomasochistic cycling.

Yesterday I was there the necessary fifteen minutes beforehand, to bagsy my bike with assertively placed water bottle. Despite this, I still had to satisfy myself with the dodgy one at the back by the giant speaker - all the others were already gone. Being at the back has its advantages, I consoled myself, in sheltering from The Shouter and his kind.

Yesterday was different to most days. In came a woman I had never seen before. She was coming to have 'a word' with the class, she explained.

'There have been complaints.'

Silence, but for the whirr of the bikes. (The serious keenos missing no opportunity to warm up.)

I've been away for a bit (getting concussed at netters, amongst other things) so I cowered in my corner, baffled. 

'Is there going to be fighting every week? Or was last week a one-off? Do you really think it's acceptable to reserve bikes so that others don't have the chance to get one?'

I was really starting to enjoy this now.

'For all of you who don't know me, I'm The Shouter's Wife (TSW),' she explained (I assume she works there too, but she might just be over-zealous). 'I have to come and talk to you because there have been so many difficulties with this class. So many complaints from and to management. You need to agree amongst yourself whose bikes are whose.'

By now, I felt like a seven-year-old Kate in the Countryside, sitting in front of Miss David at primary school as she explained to the yeargroup why it wasn't fair to leave Sophie out of games when she wanted to play too. But then, Sophie was a bag.

McEnroe: Banned from Spin Class

TSW was now explaining the intricacies of fair play. It was acceptable, she said, to save a bike before going to the loo - 'you need to be sensible' - but not before going for a lengthy stroll. I feared the lecture would never end. I was not the only one. 

At last: 'Are you going to behave?'

'Yes!' Shouted some errant fool, pre-emptively caught by the Spinning Room's adrenalin rush. They just love audience participation, these oldies.

'Right. We'll see if you can work things out for a month. If there's any more problems, we're going to have to … do something about it.' 

Punchy. 

'Have a great lesson then you guys! Good to chat!'

In walked The Shouter, looking sheepish. You could almost hear the yummy mummies in the front row thinking how much nicer they were than his wife. If he'd only notice. 

The Sporting Season

BOF's other career

Though January is traditionally the month for punishing work-out regimes and implausibly rigorous weekend timetables of self-improvement, the New Year spirit remains strong in the Pad. If anything, our commitment to sports has reached an almost embarrassing peak.

This morning found me late and munching my cereal at speed as I dashed for the door, when young BOF returns from his morning run.

He is buoyant with endorphins and the Battersea Park scenery.

‘Hello! Just had such a great run Kate I can’t understand why you don’t like running outside! I can’t understand why you don’t come for a run with me! Let’s go tomorrow, let me tell you about my route, OK...’

I am so impressed, I tell him, but I really have to go, as I’m about to be late for work.

‘OK! Great idea! Have a lovely day!’

‘Bye.’

‘Oh Kate, wait...’ I turn back, wondering if I’ve left behind my packed lunch. Or, indeed, my gym kit. ‘... Look at my stretch – it’s great – I learnt it at Bikram Yoga.... Look!’

I flee, shouting compliments on the complexity of the stretch over my shoulder.

Later, more follows.

No caption necessary

My Pimlico Guru, proud of her success at encouraging me to join her gym, tells me all about spinning. The ultimate city sport - it's for people with no space and no time. I must go because I’ll love it, I’m told. Because there is a man who shouts at you until you try harder.

It sounds like a cult.

But I go. Of course I do. PG gets me by implying that there’s a competitive element to spinning and I get embarrassingly excited at the thought.

When I arrive the spin-room is darkened and I can hardly make out the antlered forms of the sweaty bikes. Inspirational music blasts at club volume. I climb on the bike PG has saved for me (‘I had to fight someone off for you! The class is oversubscribed!’) and Shouting instructor spies me.

‘Has anyone not done this before?’ he asks pointedly, as the spin-crowd observe my feeble attempts to change the bike’s seat height. He swoops down.

‘HAH! (gesturing at PG) Did she bring you then? Are you ready for this? Are you?’
‘Erm...’ (Oh God, it is a cult. PG and The Shouter are in league.)
‘I’ll fix your bike then. You don’t have any water? You don’t have a towel? Oh dear me (knowing look) you really haven’t been spinning before have you now...’
(The whole class titter. They love him too.)

Forty minutes later and the walls run with sweat. As we reach the climax of ‘I Gotta Feeling’ (The Shouter: ‘You’re almost at the top of the hill now. How fit do you wanna be?? YOU DECIDE!!’) I eye the squash courts through the window and think longingly of Saturday morning’s Fight Club.

And then it’s over. The Shouter dismisses us and his adoring spinners throng round him gratefully as they leave.

‘See you next week!’ I exclaim involuntarily as I pass.

Damn you cult.