Back in the days when Sarina and I lived in our little house in Collier’s Wood I ran out of excuses of why I shouldn’t go to her spinning class. So one Saturday morning at the ungodly hour of 8.30am I got out of bed and reluctantly went along. The first class was hell on earth. The second was ever so slightly better but I still felt like I was going to collapse by the end of it. I didn’t go religiously but as I went to more classes it got easier and the good feeling descended on much more quickly after class. I got to the point where after 15 minutes I’d actually get into my stride and be able to push harder.

But that was quite some time ago. When I started thinking about getting my fitness back I decided to see if there was a spinning class in Durham. Despite all my googling I couldn’t find a thing so I concluded that there wasn’t any spinning action in this city. However last week at my sister’s I was flicking through a brochure for exercise classes and saw a mention of ‘Revolution’. The elusive spinning classes DID exist.

So I went along this week. Why oh why? Within 10 minutes I wanted to jump of the bike and run out of the place screaming. Gradually (very gradually) time went past. I survived 20 minutes, then 30. By thirty minutes my body was telling me to get off the damn bike and get out of there. Having not been on a bike for a while I’d also forgotten about “saddle bum” and “handlebar hands” so by this point the entire experience was unbearably uncomfortable. But I pushed on through. 35… 40… 42… Even at the 42 minute mark with only three to go I really didn’t want to take any more, not even the last 3 minutes. 43… 44… 45… Three quarters of an hour of torture and I’d kept going!

I wish I could say I walked away feeling fabulous, but my legs felt like jelly. It took all my concentration to get myself down the stairs and into the changing room showers. I stood at the bus stop with a body that was cursing me for putting it through something so bloody difficult. I wanted to curl up anywhere. Somehow I made it back home, and along the way the legs stopped shaking. There there was a period of normality for a couple of hours, before the thighs started realising they had been worked to death.

So what crazy part of my brain thinks this is a good idea? The part that knows it well get slightly easier, well enough to not be described as torture. And that the benefits of an intensive workout for forty-five minutes once a week have to be worth it. So yes, next week I will do it all again. Wish me luck!