Spinning classes are hard enough, so when the instructor plays crappy music, it becomes torturous.  My latest class was made up of a hodgepodge of Top 40 Hits from the years 1989-1995, with some slow jams from the early 2000s.  As much as I love Five For Fighting’s Superman for driving in the rain, it doesn’t exactly pump me up to push my physical limits on the stationary bike.  The only thing Big Head Todd’s Bittersweet is fueling is the frustration that grows inside me with such redundant lyrics.  (Its bittersweet -more sweet than bitter, bitter than sweet?  I mean, c’mon guy. It’s just a compound word.)

Respite came near the end of class with Bob Marley’s Buffalo Soldier – again, not exactly the tempo I am looking for, but at least a decent song.  Plus, the euphoria of class’s imminent end was breeding tolerance in me.  When we get to the chorus, specifically this part,

“Woy yoy yoy, woy yoy-yoy yoy,
Woy yoy yoy yoy, yoy yoy-yoy yoy!
Woy yoy yoy, woy yoy-yoy yoy,
Woy yoy yoy yoy, yoy yoy-yoy yoy!”

I hear a man’s countertenor voice accompaning Bob.  I give pause for a minute and listen hard to decipher if its coming from the speakers or elsewhere.  Then, reflected on the mirrored wall the semi-circle of our bikes is facing, I see the source.  The man next to me, with sweat dripping off his bald head onto his reddened face, is singing along.  His belly pouch hangs over the waist of his spandex black biking shorts, sweat dampens the yellow-stained pits of his white Hanes tshirt, and he just can’t keep his song locked up any longer.   Shiny cue ball head aside, this  guy is the dreadlock rasta.

For the remainder of the class, I stare at a stain on the grey carpet ahead of my bike, worried that if I look up, the entire class will wonder why I am grinning from ear-to-ear.

I am grateful for that guy’s singing; it made me forget all the previous 55 minutes of pain and enjoy my Spinning class fully.