This morning I went to a spinning class as part of my cross training (knee feeling much more like its old self), and it felt good to be in spinning class again -- I haven't been to one in about 2 months. However, the gym is a different place on Saturday mornings. It's much more crowded; therefore, it's more difficult to find a suitable parking space, and there are several classes going on in the morning, so many of the people who are taking up those extra parking spaces are the same ones that will be in the classes.
So, I found a space, and trotted into class and there was the normal varied bunch of bicycle enthusiasts adjusting their seats and fitting their feet into the stirrups. There are a couple of older men who seem to be in every single spinning class I've ever participated in, and because of that you'd think they'd be slimmer, but that's not the case. But they are excited to be there. Anyway, I got a bike in the back row, settled in, and then took my time surveying the class. And there she was: The bike bitch. These women are all over the gym; in fact, I'm fairly certain they don't work; they just workout.
It's easy to spot one: They are very fit and have carefully sculpted bodies (I'm quite certain that perfection does not come from their regular visits to the gym, but rather, to their regular visits to the plastic surgeon -- most women cannot physically have breasts that large and waists that small). They are tan. The wear tight, revealing gym clothes, which are almost always designer. Their gym bags are also designer. And they're the ones with the red Mercedes in the parking lot. They are middle aged, divorced, and looking for some meaning in their lives. They find it at the gym.
Women of this variety are typically quick to anger, and if a machine is out of order or a class doesn't start on time, you can bet that they will be the first one at the front desk to let those gym attendants know. Well, this bike bitch was pissed that the bike she had chosen wasn't adjusting properly, and she was cursing up a storm about how crappy the bikes are and that the gym needs to purchase new ones or else she'll start going to a different gym. Soon, the instructor was over there helping her and the guy next to her was helping, and the woman on the other side of her was standing there with a look of concern (I was silently praying that bike bitch would burst into flames -- the class probably would have been cancelled, but I would have been satisfied).
When the bike just wouldn't adjust like she wanted, she started saying that someone else was going to have to give her their bike because she was one of the first ones in the class (you have to sign in on a roster to guarantee a spot -- the first ones to sign in get their pick of the bikes) and that she deserved a spot and she wasn't going to be the one to forfeit the class. I watched the fit with the same expression I use for disorderly children in the supermarket: Part horror, part disgust, part embarassment. It was better than TV; I was riveted to the drama that was unfolding.
The instructor assured her that no one would have to leave the class and that they would get the bike adjusted; and then, as if God heard, the handle bars snapped into place and the bitch was satisified. She griped a little more that she had received the "crap bike" and she complained loudly that it was off balance, but no one paid her any mind, so she shut up and focused on peddling away for the next sixty minutes.
I was right behind her as I headed out the front door and I watched her stop by the front desk to give them a little piece of her mind. My heart went out to those attending the front desk.