Page 8 of Spinning Out Of Control

Chug! Chug! Chug!

As my class continues to cheer, Jackie follows through on her threat and sends a production assistant in to take my blessed cold brew away from me. He’s just in time, too, ducking out of frame as the red light goes on and the pre-show begins.

When the lights dim and my playlist starts up, the opening notes ofTeardropsby Bring Me The Horizon fill the room and I look straight down the camera and say the line that I've opened every single class with since my first audition three years ago.

"Welcome to hell, Spin Sync! My name is Kira McKenna, also known as your worst damn nightmare, and you are here for your sixty-minute heavy metal ride."

With less than a minute to go before the class clock starts, I've got fifty seconds to give my quick info and safety spiel. Easy as pie, it’s the same speech I give before every cycling class. I could give it in my sleep.

“Make sure your feet are clipped in, and your heels are all the way back in your cycling shoes. Booty on the widest part of the saddle. Cadence is your leg speed, turn the resistance knob to the right to make your roadsteeper, to the left it gets easier. Inhale, exhale, clock starts…now.”

I lead the class through a warmup to get their heart rates elevated and then we're off to the races. When I program these classes, I prefer to always have us riding to the rhythm of the music. In a metal ride, that means we're pedaling fast as fuck. Because I'm someone who likes to uphold my reputation as a killer and give my students their money's worth when they show up to my class, it also means that we're pedaling fast as fuck up steep as hell mountains.

"If it doesn't feel like you're pedaling through mud, you need to add more resistance," I say during “Enter Sandman”by Metallica. It's the fourth song of class and one of my regulars that I know only by his Spin Sync leaderboard name–HotPapi69–is moving way too fast for the pace I've set.

I never call out anyone specifically during class because at the end of the day, each workout is personal to every person and I'm just here to provide guidelines. I do, however, throw HotPapi69 some side-eye. He's been riding with me for years, so I know that he has more in his tank than what he's giving me right now.

Plus, dude is a total perv who sneaks his phone in to take pictures of my crotch so he can post him on his weird jerk-off blog. I get a lot of joy out of making him sweat until he’s sick.

Metallica fades into Iron Maiden, followed by Slipknot, Anthrax, and more Iron Maiden. At the penultimatesong, I have my class pedaling up a hill as fast as they can with more grit than feels humanly possible, even for me. As we huff and puff our way up, I offer a bit of encouragement to help get us to the summit.

"Come on, don't give up now. Can you do this? Yes or yes? Look around you. Look at the person next to you. Look at me. We're all in it. We're all pushing. We’re all struggling for air. Every single set of lungs in this room is on fucking fire right now. Every ass is burning. Every one of us is dripping with sweat. It's not just you. No one does it alone, we're all in the fight together. I've got your back, so you gotta have mine too. Let’s get to the top of this fucking hill."

With that, I let out a cathartic roar because fucking hell, I don't know who I thought I was when I programmed this class. This last push is tough and, in my studio, I'm always doing the work I'm asking my students to do. I’m not the kind of instructor who will hop off her bike to correct a student’s form while they’re spinning for their life. There are no dismounts or paused feet for me.

When I welcome my students to hell, I want them to know that I'm not just the guy driving the golf cart giving them directions. I'm the demon walking alongside them, pushing them and myself to our limits.

When the last working song ends and “Down Bad” by Taylor Swift flows through the speakers, I revel in the exhausted laughs and chortles from my class at theabrupt change of vibes. I point to the speakers in the ceiling as I work to catch my breath.

"You all know that this song is perfect for our cool down,” I say, pointing up to the speakers in the ceiling. “I don’t know about you, but I’m damn close to crying in this gym, and you cannot tell me that Miss Swift isn’t metal as hell."

I lead the class through a cool down and a stretch, bathing in the euphoric high I can only get from a solid cardio session and letting it carry me through post-class meet and greets and photos, all the while thinking about how damn lucky I am. It may have been a bumpy ride getting here, but I have the best job in the entire world.

And if all goes to plan, soon my dickhead boss will pull his head out of his ass and sell me what is rightfully mine, and then everything the light touches here at Spin Sync will finally belong to me.

"How doyou all feel about pegging a man? Like, do we lean more towards the yay-side or the nay-side when it comes to strapping up?”

I pose the question to my three best girlfriends between sips of my grapefruit mimosa. We’re right in the middle of our standing weekly brunch date. EverySaturday after a workout, we head out to a trendy restaurant and pig out on carbs, champagne, and girl-talk.

This morning, the gabbing is happening at a breakfast-only joint in Hayes Valley over eggs benedict, apricot French toast and strawberry pancakes.

It’s an extra special Saturday for me and The Pussy Posse. Our girl Rachel is joining Georgie in the club of old married ladies. Her man, Amir, popped the question over Rosé and romance novels in their home last night, and the two have decided on a quickie engagement and a low key ceremony.

My gal pal is already the chillest bride-to-be to ever live and is insisting that the whole thing is no big deal. However, I think that nabbing herself a hot billionaire and the twenty-carat planet of a diamond on her left ring finger deserves a brunch to be remembered.

Hence, the question. If Rach doesn’t want to be celebrated, the least I can do as the self-appointed group circus-monkey is to provide some entertaining and stimulating conversation.

"Pegging?" Dottie asks from my right side, a bite of English muffin smothered in hollandaise paused halfway to her mouth.

"Yeah, pegging. You know, like strapping on a dildo and going to town on a man's back door? I was reading last night and came across a scene that really did it for me. The woman was described as feminine and cutesy-looking with the purple strap-on on her waist. Thedude was a big, buff gym bro. He was super grumpy and gruff through the entire story but in this scene, he was a total sub, laying on his back and holding onto his knees. I didn't think I would get into it, but it was hot. I couldn’t help it; I had to get myself off. But then when I was done, I had some post-nut clarity. Like, could I do that in real life? Could I put on a silicone dick and have a man ride me into oblivion? I don't know, how do we feel?"

I take an oversized bite of my strawberry pancakes and wash it down with a sip of mimosa. Across from me, Rachel shrugs. I can already guess what her answer is going to be. She and Amir are the cutest, nerdiest, bookworm-iest couple with a closet–no, excuse me, an entireplayroom–filled with dirty sexual secrets. Those two get freaky and kinky on the regular.

"I'm Team Pegging, but I get it. I was intimidated at first, but in the end, it's just like any other sexual activity. If everyone involved is willing and enthusiastic, it's gonna be hot," she says, sipping her latte and then grimacing. Rachel owns a coffee shop called Espresso Yourself a few blocks away and as much as she might try not to be, she's a total coffee snob. She never truly enjoys hot bean water unless she makes it herself.

Totally valid, though. She makes the best coffee and craft beverages I've ever had in my life.

"And you, G? Are you a fan of hitting Mr. Adler with the old gravy plunger?" I ask Georgie.

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