Before spin classes, cycling was a beautiful sport. Even the most football hardened couch potato takes pause at the sight of a multi-colored peloton passing through the field of sunflowers in a Graham Watson photo. Personally, I love the middle of bike races, the boring part. I hold my breath watching the flow of riders funneling through a corner. I marvel at the grace of a perfectly executed crosswind echelon. Watching people in spin class is akin to watching a Key West sidewalk contortionist. Look away! But, you can't. 
I've seen people do jumping jacks in Cincinnati's Eden Park. There's no better way to look like a gold-chain-loving red velour-jumpsuit-wearing doofus than to do jumping jacks in public. As they say on the SNL skit, “Oooh Weee! What Up Wit Dat?” Even though you may not have a penchant for white high-top Adidas and perms, some people who wear chamois and have SPD compatible shoes are putting spinning at risk of a border war with real cycling. A line must be drawn. No longer can I hold it in. Like the classic jams I hear in spin class, I'm calling you out...Spin Class Heroes:
It makes me want to say, “Pssst. She’s talking to you.” Without pointing fingers, between describing the next interval and advising us to grab a drink, the spin instructor kindly said, “If you’re bobbing up and down on the saddle, you need to put on more resistance.” Now I’m no medical expert, but seriously, dropping that kind of hinder hammer has to be one easy way to turn your junk into junk. I used to wonder why spin bikes were made out of square steel bars. Not anymore. I understand the thick saddles too. They’re not for your comfort; it’s to cushion the poor bike from getting a Kardashian sized butt whoopin'. Please Hammer. Don’t hurt ‘em.
Ray Charles
Maybe this is what happens when MC Hammer finally settles down, the pent up energy has to get out. Like some sort of seismic reaction, she rocks back and forth as if spinning to a sped up version of “Hit The Road Jack.” Please! No more, no more, no more, no more.
Let it whip girl! You got the sassy sweaty band and you're gonna rock that pony tail! Her head flicks around, half Night at the Roxbury, half night at a Five Finger Death Punch concert. Left, right! Up, down! With precisely timed jumps and corresponding neck twitches it can spin concentric circles that'd make Indiana Jones wish he could whip like that.
Are we not men? No, you're a guy who tucks his shirt in his bike shorts. You may look and feel like your young, but your outfit is screaming grandpa to all the lovely ladies in the spin room. Let go of the past, let go off the office, let go of 1982...for goodness sake let go of your shirt. Here's two reason's to not tuck in your shirt: it hides your gut and keeps you from double offending as a Naked Cowboy.
The Devil went down to Georgia, but she got side tracked adjusting the straps on the toe clips every 2 minutes. Then she went to fill up her water bottle, right after she stopped to adjust her pony tail band. Right when you think she's going to settle in for the next 3 minute interval, with remarkable dexterity, because she doesn't want to have to re-do her toe straps for the fifth time, she reaches down for her phone on top of her backpack and twiddles a text. Nothing can hold her concentration. She's not even in spin class. Her Facebook status already reads, "1 hour spin done, off to Nordstrom!
The Cowboy spent all his money on the gym membership, Sidi spinning shoes and the Beemer in the parking lot. Unfortunately, there wasn't a penny left over to complete the high roller image with a new pair of shorts. Also unfortunately for you, he took the spin bike in front of you offering an hour long unobstructed view of one of nature's magic wonders, the grand canyon clouded in a thin layer of thread bare spandex. It may play on the streets on NYC, but I'm not throwing any tips at his feet.
