Wheel of Torture

A year ago if you had told me I’d get into spinning, I would have told you that you were crazy. Like CrossFit, which I haven’t yet tried, spinning always struck me as one of those cults. It’s the beaming face of someone just dying to tell you:

“I used to be miserable like you, until I found:

Jesus Christ, my Lord and Savior
The Paleo Diet
Neo-Conservatism
My Current Lover
Ketones"

I tried yoga for a while, but lacked the Zen personality and discipline. The challenge was finding the right outlet for my innately American bifurcation of hedonism and masochism. We like our masochism “lite” -- just enough self-flagellation to “take the edge off” the guilt of the anticipated cocktail of indolence and self-indulgence, later in the day.

In this worldview of Excess, Exercise, as a form of self-improvement and admission that we are innately Not Worthy, is the heir to Calvinist, Puritan culture. It is the ghosts of Jonathan Edwards’ “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God,” or Cotton Mather’s faith and works, as the two oars with which the righteous man attempts to navigate his way through the treacherous waters of life. At the same time, we’ve replaced the transubstantiation of the Body and the Blood, with diet cola, margarine, skim milk, the egg white omelette, and gluten-free diet (for non-celiacs) -- in short, the charming idea that we can have our cake and eat it too...even if it doesn’t taste very good.

I immediately know another person and I will understand one another and possibly become great friends if they admit to two things: hating egg white omelettes and exercise.

Two conversations inspired me to attend Wheel of Torture. The first was with a German woman, who told me how she had been a very accomplished athlete in college, so much so that she injured her back and had suffered lifelong complications. These had now flared up to the point where she could no longer attend classes at Wheel of Torture. She told me that she missed these classes so much so that she was planning to undergo an extremely painful and invasive surgery and recovery, just so she could return. I was immediately impressed. No wonder the Germans gave us Protestantism and flirted with the idea of a master race.

In contrast, a few years ago my French spouse thoroughly enjoyed the interlude of having a broken ankle, from a ski accident -- the perfect injury “lite,” where you get all the sympathy and don’t have to endure much pain. He delighted in such consequences as being catered to by his wife, not having to do anything or have anything required of him, opiate painkillers, and the ability to focus on Physics.

My second inspiration was entirely different. I was having coffee with a good friend. Every person should have a friend like “Jackie,” if they enjoy outrageous, irreverent and salacious conversation. Jackie had recently met up with an ex, who after dating her, decided he preferred men. That wasn’t what bothered Jackie. 

“‘Ben’ had completely buffed up. He proudly told me that he now attends the 6:30am class at Wheel of Torture every day. And then it struck me. Here it was: the prime example of sexism in our country: not the obvious pussy grab or the underhanded slur, but the fact that even men have to up their game when they start dating men. Meanwhile, the middle-aged, mushy body was good enough for us women. That f@cker, I bet he even started waxing too!”

I zoned out. I wasn’t thinking of sexism or the slings and arrows of Jackie’s love life. I was thinking of the quick fix. If one month of Wheel of Torture was enough for gay men to notice Ben, maybe it would achieve the necessary calorie burning and muscle toning for me? Perhaps even gay men would approve of me.

If you blended a Satanic ritual, tent revival and a rock concert, you’d come up with something resembling spinning. Wheel of Torture, appropriately, is located in a basement. Like many franchise meetings, I suspect each coven of Wheel of Torture reflects the local demographic. For my neighborhood (and the class times I attend), this means predominantly blond, middle-aged, lululemon-wearing women. Self-consciously, I tell myself I am not a Basic Bitch. I am not a groupie, I am not a follower, I am not like them. I search for some evidence of this. All I can come up with to mildly differentiate myself, is that I am a brunette.

The men in the class are a definite minority. I mentally divide them into three categories: gay men, middle-aged men trying to fight the “dadbod,” young hipster Millennials, often training for triathlons. You would think the opportunity to spend an hour ogling the backsides of a bunch of fit, appearance-conscious women, twerking and exerting themselves in tight clothing would be Shangri-La for straight men. The only possible explanation I can think of for why there aren’t more straight men in Spinning is that the workout or the estrogen level is too much for them.

The initiate enters a dark room of anonymous people, mounted on stationary bicycles, arranged in a semicircle (often prolonged by mirrored wall). The initiate will remain anonymous, unless he or she becomes a regular, in which case, the instructor honors you with a special shout out, as one of the “Saved.” In my case, I was only too happy to sweat off my sins in anonymity. Once class starts, the instructor calls out the cues. Pranayama breathing is one way to try and quiet your mind. Another way is to spend your time busily adjusting torque, speed, and moving between three different positions on a bicycle, in a dark room, blasting music at an ear-violating pitch. The Try Hard Die Hard’s register their names so they pop up on the class monitor. I haven’t worked up the courage to do this. I also can’t think of a cool enough handle.

One month into Wheel of Torture and I still can barely figure out how to fit the shoes into the clips and I hate it, but I keep going back, because I like the way I look and feel afterwards. Some days I’m trying hard not to throw up because if I don’t eat first thing in the morning I basically can’t function. I am pretty sure the guards at Guantanamo blast this exact same soundtrack to prisoners’ cells. Think up tempo, Trap version of “Life is a Highway.” Actually, on second thoughts, I imagine Gitmo guards probably blast the Original version of “Life is a Highway.”

Each instructor has their signature motivational cues:

Be stronger than your excuse!

Most people can’t do what you’re doing right now!

If you can’t keep up with the torque and speed, don’t beat yourself up. You already did the first, most important thing today, you showed up! (I make a mental note of this one).

Life begins at the end of your comfort zone!

If you were able to believe in Santa Claus for 8 years, you can believe in yourself for 5 minutes!

Once you join Wheel of Torture, you can search for your “guru.” The nice thing about the class format is that you can shop around for this instructor with minimal awkwardness and commitment. It takes me almost a month to find her. She is petite and feminine, but tough, with muscular arms, a good-natured Irish face, and reddish brown hair pulled into a ponytail and a can-do attitude. “Mary Alice” has the right combination of workout and playlist, so that I feel challenged and don’t see time pass -- per my other compulsive gear check during Spinning -- using the mini “active recoveries” to look at my watch. When she plays an up tempo remixes of Prince’s “Dirty Diana” and Beyonce’s “Formation,” I’m hooked.