Chihuahua in a Microwave

Today I found myself in an unexpected series of circumstances which left me something of a hero in my gym. I work out at the 24 Hour Fitness, and I generally keep to myself. I see all the other gym rats in there all the time. Most of them fall into at least one of the commonly accepted categories. Almost like a John Hughes archetype, they find their socially suitable equilibrium and never deviate. Some are there merely to peacock in front of the opposite sex, some just to look at themselves in the mirror, but none in any way wish to upset the carefully constructed social order that exists in the gym. I mean, the gym is filled with weirdos, and between sets I do a fair amount of people watching. And despite the fact that in the outside world none of these people are in any way compatible they all oddly coexist here without incident.

I was finished with my whole lifting routine and headed to the abs area to conclude my workout. You know what I mean here, the abs section that part of the gym filled with all the sit-up machines of every shape and color. The abs area is a kind of neutral zone between the hardcore pumping-iron section and the frilly cardio / nautilus machine section. The abs section is kind of like a demilitarized zone between the different conflicting gym ethos’s. Just by architectural chance at my 24 Hour Fitness the abs section is also the entrance to the Spinning room. Now for those who have no idea what spinning is I will lay it down for you. Spinning is a fancy Hollywood-style stationary bike. But this isn’t just any stationary bike, your feet strap into the pedals and the wheel is weighted (so it can build up momentum). Now you would think that people just get on that shit and do a few miles then go about their day. Well you would be way the fuck off. Spinning isn’t just an exercise machine, it’s a fucking cult.

Spin classes consist of a leader who exercises in the front of everyone and the rest of the class who sit in even rows facing the leader. Music is played, mostly beat driven, and often the speed of the music is increased to boost the beats per minute. Now, with the music pumping, the leader will take the rest of the spin class on their ‘spirit journey’. The lights are dimmed or turned off, and the doors are open to let all the stink and humidity escape from the hell-box they create. The class tries to harmonize their peddling with the beats of the music, occasionally cranking on their resistance knob, standing and sitting as commanded by the leader, all the while envisioning hills and valleys, swamps filled with peanut butter and smooth downhill slopes covered in peppermint (actual metaphors used by the spin cult leaders I’ve observed). Sometimes the spin cult leader will get carried away and tells the class to “jump” every two seconds – at this point everyone stands up then sits back down, all the while envisioning a prancing unicorn. The meditations and commands are explained through a megaphone headset attached to the spin cult leaders head as they exercise. Many of these cult leaders are women, and their screeching voices combined with the sped-up techno and pop songs makes for a nauseating listening experience for those poor unlucky gym-goers to be working out in the abs section while they are conducting a spin class.

So as you can see, spin class is for lame faggy fuck-tards. Spin class is basically a pathetic excuse for actually riding a bike – about the cardiovascular equivalent of imagining that you’re running while driving your car down a hill. I’ve got an idea, you idiotic fucks, why don’t you just get off your ass and quit pretending to do something and actually fucking do it!? I don’t think you could even call Spinning actual exercise, that’s like calling somebody a rock-star because they can air-guitar to their favorite songs (in a dark room with a sweaty elitist bunch of losers)…!? If I wanted to be around a bunch of sweaty creepy weirdos in a dark room I would just hang out in public bathrooms in city parks at night. There at least you only get harassed by garden variety queers, not some pansy-ass pseudo-buddhist bike nazis. And yet somehow the Spinners think they are the pinnacle of modern fitness. They have snooty terms and practices, snobbishly kicking people out of their spin classes because they don’t fit the dynamic. I got news for you spin class fucks, I will stomp a fuck-hole in your face if you ever look sideways at me. I don’t tolerate you kind of faggy elitism in any way shape or form. Fuck you, fuck your lame-ass spin bikes, and fuck your imaginary work-outs – I will crush you.

So let me cut to the chase here. I walk into the abs section. A wide variety of gym patrons sit crunching and flexing their midsections. The door to the spin room is open and the revolting sounds of techno and a woman’s breathless screeching voice assault my ears. I work through one set of weighted sit-ups until I can’t take another fucking minute of it. I stand up, walk to the door, and slam it shut on the spin cult. They now run the risk of suffocation in the repulsive fog of their stinking screeching hell. I hear the cult leader screech something at me as I walk back to my machine. Much to my surprise three dudes working out in there, all from varying gym categories and social backgrounds, thanked me profusely. These dudes all went well out of their way to let me know just how thankful they were that I hammered shut the miserable spin cult.

Old rotted gym dude, “Thanks.. I mean, thank you very much.”

Meaty black gym dude, “Hah, yeah man – that’s pretty cool. Thanks!”

Skinny trailer park gym dude, “Thank you bro.”

Me, “That bitch sounded like a Chihuahua in a microwave – somebody had to do something.”

They all laugh and continue to work out in a newfound peace. Somebody did have to do something, and that somebody was me. Fuck spinning class, fuck spin cult leaders, and fuck all you spin cult followers. You are all weird, annoying, fags (yes even the women who spin goddamn it, especially the women who spin).

As for me – you guessed it – for one day I was the gym HERO!

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