RPM

The past few months have seen a few firsts happen in my life. I’ve run my first marathon, played in my first piano recital and also, attended my first RPM class.

For the uninitiated, RPM stands for Revolutions Per Minute. Meaningless in itself, the term has been repackaged by the Les Mills global sports franchise into an indoor cycle class that mimics outdoors cycling. At least that’s what it says on the package.

The marathon had left me with a foot injury which means that I have been unable to run, dance, jump; do any high impact activity for the past month. To hold stir craziness and boredom at bay, I’ve been swimming, cycling, yoga-ing and pilat-ing but it hasn’t really worked. I got bored.

I needed more variation.

My husband, a RPM fan had been urging me to go for months.

Give it a go, he said religiously until weakened by his nagging, I succumbed.

So at the ungodly hour of 7.15am, I found myself perched on top of a stationary bicycle in a dark, airless room with 30 other people, all there to “feel the burn” Thankfully the instructor, a lycra -clad Australian seemed not prone to the fake cheering or whooping that inflicts many of his type (Fitness instructors. Not Australians). As the thumping music started, everyone around me started churning away at their pedals in Lance Armstrong fashion.

I started to feel quite peculiar. The room started to close in. My chest felt tight. I had an overwhelming urge to run outside and gasp in cool, clear air.

Did I listen to my body’s’ good sense? Did I leave the class before passing out from claustrophobia?

No. I kept going. Why?

Because I needed to feel the burn, baby.

Overcrowded. Tick. Airless. Tick. Dark. Tick. Welcome to RPM

Succumbing to the oxygen-deprived psychosis that RPM inflicts, I pedalled away. Up imaginary hills, around imaginary tracks; all the while humming the tune, We’re On the Road to Nowhere beneath my breath:

We're on a ride to nowhere
Come on inside
Takin' that ride to nowhere
We'll take that ride...


At last the class ended and I collapsed in a sweaty, spun out heap. My heart rate was off the charts. The burn had well and truly been felt.

So how did you find it? asked the Husband who had been pedalling away in his own Tour de France fantasy next to me.

It sucked. It’s stupid.

Eloquent as I am, I didn’t mention to him that I was planning to go again.

Suckerrrrr. That's me.