When I posted a Facebook update announcing my witching-hour workout, my old drinking buddy Joe Jay responded with the following: "Wow! The only spinning I remember at 6 a.m. was when our heads were still spinning from all those Jager shots the night before!"
|Broadway at 5:30 a.m.|
The day I went to spin class I woke up at 5 a.m. groaning and cursing, and I arrived at the gym to discover a packed parking lot. Here they were: morning people. A lot of them. I shuffled inside half-dazed to discover people jogging on treadmills, lifting weights in front of the mirror, and doing crunches. As though this kind of behavior at this hour was normal. My brain flooded with "what the fuck," and I retreated to the bathroom to give myself a pep talk.
Eventually I tiptoed out and selected a stationary bike, and the next hour passed as though I was underwater or in a dream, or maybe a dream taking place underwater. Despite almost puking or passing out at least twice, somehow I managed to survive running, jumping, and skipping from one end of the gym to the other in between frantic bouts of pedaling on my bike. Then I went home, took a shower, passed out, and was late for work.
But, bonus: I ate and ate and ate all afternoon, and I didn't feel the least bit guilty about it.