RG arrives
One of my ambitions is to take spin courses from a variety of instructors to hone my patter. Coach Ferrante sets the bar. He's beautiful on the bike, a master instructor, silky smooth, righteous, sublime, royal.
Coach Duggan doesn't have the same class on the bike, but she has great confidence, room presence, and a finely tuned spinning ear and eye. People line up half an hour early to make it to Coach Duggan's Sunday morning class.
Sadly, these two are the exception to the rule. Other instructors don't know how to ride, they flop around on the bicycles, and they appear to be having seizures. How on God's Green Earth can one teach something if one can't do it?
The students in the sketchy classes pick up the habits of the sketchy teachers. They're bobbing to and fro, their heads flopping around like the dogs with springs for necks you see on the dashboards of cabs.
The worse the teacher, the more likely the students are members of the General Population. They just want to FEEL THE BURN for 40 minutes. Talking about form or technique is like talking to your dog about playing the piano. It may make you feel better but it's a waste of time.
Last night, I took a class and the instructor showed up at least 30 pounds overweight and I knew this wasn't going to be good. An overweight cyclist is like an anorexic chef, the words should just never go together.
Things were looking pretty grim until RG showed up. He's six feet tall, maybe 140 pounds soaking wet. He took one look around the room, gave me the evil eye, and soon, it was on.
When he went, I went, and when I went, he went. Up in the three position, up the climbs, we had a little rivalry. There were other people in the class, but they ceased to exist, because they just couldn't hang with us, not for a minute, not for ten seconds.
With the lights out and the sweat pouring out of me and my Heart Rate in the 170's and some bad music pumping through the speakers, I imainged myself not in this room, but in France climbing up Alpe d'Huez, hammering away in the heat, past the crowds, around the 21 switchbacks, up through the clouds and to the top, clinging to RG's wheel like a fat man lunging for the last piece of fried chicken on the picnic table.
Coach Duggan doesn't have the same class on the bike, but she has great confidence, room presence, and a finely tuned spinning ear and eye. People line up half an hour early to make it to Coach Duggan's Sunday morning class.
Sadly, these two are the exception to the rule. Other instructors don't know how to ride, they flop around on the bicycles, and they appear to be having seizures. How on God's Green Earth can one teach something if one can't do it?
The students in the sketchy classes pick up the habits of the sketchy teachers. They're bobbing to and fro, their heads flopping around like the dogs with springs for necks you see on the dashboards of cabs.
The worse the teacher, the more likely the students are members of the General Population. They just want to FEEL THE BURN for 40 minutes. Talking about form or technique is like talking to your dog about playing the piano. It may make you feel better but it's a waste of time.
Last night, I took a class and the instructor showed up at least 30 pounds overweight and I knew this wasn't going to be good. An overweight cyclist is like an anorexic chef, the words should just never go together.
Things were looking pretty grim until RG showed up. He's six feet tall, maybe 140 pounds soaking wet. He took one look around the room, gave me the evil eye, and soon, it was on.
When he went, I went, and when I went, he went. Up in the three position, up the climbs, we had a little rivalry. There were other people in the class, but they ceased to exist, because they just couldn't hang with us, not for a minute, not for ten seconds.
With the lights out and the sweat pouring out of me and my Heart Rate in the 170's and some bad music pumping through the speakers, I imainged myself not in this room, but in France climbing up Alpe d'Huez, hammering away in the heat, past the crowds, around the 21 switchbacks, up through the clouds and to the top, clinging to RG's wheel like a fat man lunging for the last piece of fried chicken on the picnic table.
posted by joe berkeley at 5:19 AM
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