Ride On

Ride On If you haven’t figured it out by now, I am basically ADHD. I go from starting a business and creating a website to building a portfolio of clients for a colleague, only to jumpstart the process all over again. Everything serves a purpose, of course, with what I’m endeavoring to accomplish. Enter www.kamiskloud.com. This most recent business of mine has been a wonderful challenge. Yes, challenge is the right word. As I’ve taken on a few new fitness clients, I’ve realized I need to become better acquainted with the, ahem, business. If you’ve ever read the Shopaholic series of books, for example, the main character has a job as a financial writer but gets stiletto heel deep in debt because of her spending habits. Like Rebecca Bloomwood, I’m immersing myself in all things fitness to stay afloat. Cue in the flicker of candlelight. Two days ago I went to my first SoulCycle class. I want you to envision “SoulCycle” and candlelight streaming through a dark room as if a rave is about to take place. That’s pretty much what the class is, but on a bike. Because I didn’t sign up for the class, I was waitlisted. A flashback floods my mind as if it’s year 2000 at the velvet rope at Spa while I’m waiting to get in. Should I namedrop? I finally get a spot, seat, bike – whatever you call it – only to find out I’m all the way on the side of the class sitting next to this It couple. Just when I think they’re regulars, Ken and Barbie share it’s their first “ride” too. Yes, it’s called a ride although you aren’t going anywhere. Anyway, as we embark on our ride, the instructor enters the room. It then occurs to me why I was waitlisted. Said instructor, a suburb version of David Beckham, is pretty much a Greek god. No wonder SoulCycle is flourishing. Rock starts are running, I mean riding, the class. In my moment of panic, I focus on the music. Just get through about ten songs and class is kaput. First song finished, I think I got this; no problem. Then Greek god Instructor – let’s call him GG – announces, “Great warm up guys.” What? I’m about to pass out. I lower my resistance, or attempt to before realizing it doesn’t go any lower. Then Rhianna comes on. That’s my jam! I start to ride the bike like I’m on the dance floor. Who cares my shoes are clipped on and I’m in the back. If there’s a fire, I will be last man out. Seriously, where are the exits? Shouldn’t there be a fire drill on occasion? Eventually we get to song four and it happens. Ken and Barbie get off their bikes. Get back on those bikes! People have been waitlisted! Don’t be ungrateful! What if GG notices and thinks I’m with you guys, even though I’m 45, a mother of two, and you guys look 25 and could be my kids from an early romance. OK, shake it off because Madge is on. Yes, Madonna, the original queen. Another flashback surfaces when the ride slows down for “arms.” I grab the weights that have been hiding under my seat. Three pounders. I got this. I give a smug look to the other kids in the room, the ones still there and not using weights. Wimps. Hmmm, why am I suddenly shaking? Whatever, I’m still strong. Maybe I’m not that strong. Several minutes in, my arms turn to Jello. I’ll never be able to drive home. Then GG preaches. We shall listen to anything he says. Fine, we half-listen as the music has become deafening. I hold onto the handlebars for dear life. Then just like that, it ends. Everyone claps. I can’t though with my alligator arms. Instead I smile, trying to decipher how to get off the bike. Somehow I manage to unhinge my shoes and slide to the exit. I buy some apparel before exiting to the street, however. Next time I’m intent to sport the SoulCycle logo like everyone else. I guess I’m an optimist who will ride again, or at least look like I will. Backpedal a moment, was this blog entry supposed to be about something else? Did I mention my ADHD?