This post was originally written years ago — long before I became a full‑blown Peloton junkie who now clips in at home, avoids bike‑stealing village idiots entirely, and channels her recovering‑fanatic energy into Cody, Bradley, Emma, Ben and others … Growth, people. Growth.
Fanatic. Extremist. Uncompromising. Obsessive. You get it.
I used to be over‑the‑top regimented when it came to everything — especially my workouts. But now I’m a “recovering fanatic,” trying to find my place somewhere between a healthy routine and the three‑hour‑a‑day, seven‑day‑a‑week schedule I once adhered to. Still, I make my plans and, with the exception of an occasional snowstorm, I stick to them. (Okay, fine — I did sleep in the other day and missed my morning run, which, much to my own surprise, I survived.)
So yesterday, I show up for spin class — for those unfamiliar, it’s an indoor cycling class, not a way to make wool. And honestly, if you aren’t familiar, you probably won’t care one iota about this post. Anyhoo…
This particular class is popular with all the current fanatics — which means it’s always full and you have to sign up for a bike online before class starts. If you don’t sign in, you don’t get a bike. Period. There are signs everywhere explaining this policy. The front desk makes it clear. The instructors make it clear. My fellow enthusiasts make it clear. (Note: I am refraining from grouping myself in with the fanatics.)
So, I don my workout attire, drive to the club, sign my name on the sheet to prove I’ve arrived (note: I am already signed in online), and waltz my way back to the room. I talk with a friend, say hello to the instructor, and then — THEN — my eyes begin to wander, searching for a bike.
My usual spot is taken. Fine. I got there twenty minutes early instead of thirty. I’ll settle for the other side of the room. Whatever. I’m not worried. My name is on the list. The list. The f’ing list.
Eventually, the instructor does roll call because apparently some idiot is unable to follow the rules and has perched their little tush onto a saddle that should be mine. She calls out names from the list — the f’ing list — and finally, the culprit is discovered.
Village Idiot: “But I already have my stuff on the bike.”
Spin Instructor: “Yes, but you didn’t sign in. She did. It’s her bike.”
Village Idiot: “But I already have my stuff on the bike.”
Fellow Fanatics: “But you’re not on THE LIST,” they bark, ready to stone the moron for stealing precious workout minutes.
UGGHH. So, what’s a girl to do? What I wanted to do was gather the fanatics and have the little flea drawn and quartered. But I didn’t. I shushed the fierce anger boiling my insides, took a deep breath, and…
Recovering Fanatic (yes, that’s me): “Forget it. I’m going for a run.”
And I left. Gruff.
The old fanatic in me would have stayed, demanded my bike, and then run extra miles to make up for the minutes lost to the ordeal. But no. I remained calm. Sane. And channeled that fierceness into seven seven‑minute miles. Yay me.
(I did, however, secretly flip him off when I drove away. That’ll teach him.)
Cover image created with Jetpack.
If this spoke to you, be sure to “like” and share it over social with someone who’d appreciate the flavor …
DISCLAIMER: These are my personal experiences and opinions. Nothing here is medical, nutritional, or therapeutic advice. Also, I’m a writer and an editor. And I try my best to make sure every post is articulate and free from errors. However, being that I edit my own work—and it’s next to impossible to properly edit your own work—I admit, occasionally there may be an error or two I miss. But doing so doesn’t make me an idiot so don’t be mean. Just smile, pat yourself on the back for finding an error and be glad you’re not the only one who makes mistakes sometimes … xoxox
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