Rise (search frantically for matching socks) and shine.
Two classes in.
I can barely raise my leg to the edge of the tub to shave.
I don't own fancy clip-in shoes. My hindquarters loathe me. And the silver-haired gentleman to my left (the one in the neon yellow racing jersey) smoked me from warmup to cool down.
Urges to punch the sadist instructor subsided by mile 10. Thoughts of perfectly toned legs outweighed the hoots, woots and hollers emitted by the more enthusiastic cyclists. And the music could use an upgrade. (Kid Rock? I'm cringing).
Aspirations are lofty.... but I might befriend this spinning thing.
(That's the endorphins speaking).