Have you ever been to a gym class so intense it makes you question your life choices, your emotional stability, and whether your stomach might revolt entirely? A class so brutal it feels like the universe is trying to teach you some cosmic lesson about pain, perseverance, and perhaps how not to puke on your Stella McCartney’s?

That was me on Saturday.

I did a thing: I went to my first Parisian spinning class. Fully in French. And as we’ve established by now, my French skills are best described as… mute.

Let’s start by saying, I am no Spin virgin. I used to be a 4 class per week girl once upon a pre-pandemic time. I’ll be honest, I was a maniac for sure. I was a gym girl, a spin girl a HITT girl. Many referred to me as an addict of sweat girl.

I’ve since invited balance into my life. I work out, sure, but I also love a good croissant and a late brunch.

Anyway, back to Saturday.

I walked into that pitch-black Parisian spin studio on Saturday with the swagger of someone who thought she knew what she was doing.

The electro beats were pumping. The room could have been a 2006 Soho nightclub. And there was Leticia, our instructor, setting up while busting out her fave club moves.

I have no idea what possessed me, but i decided to choose a bike situated at the very front of the class. Literally face to face with Letitia. Was i manifesting the part of teachers pet already? I had no idea what lay ahead.

I wont lie, i was a touch nervous.

Everyone was warming up in wireless headphones, looking like they were about to launch into the Tour de France. I grabbed a pair and noticed something odd: no one was wearing spin shoes. Regular trainers all around. My first thought? “Pfft, amateurs.”

I popped over to Leticia to introduce myself, casually mentioning I wasn’t new to spinning but was new to her class. She smiled, far too sweetly, and said, “This class is in French, all of it.”

“Yes, I know,” I replied, brimming with confidence. My boss had once told me, “Just watch the others and you’ll be fine.” And besides, I was once a spinning queen. How hard could it be?

Spoiler: It was very hard.

Thirty seconds in, as Leticia’s instructions blasted through my headphones, I realised I was in for the ride of my life.

The problem wasn’t the pedaling. It was the French. Specifically, the numbers. In English, 90 is a simple concept: ninety. Easy. But in French?

Quatre-vingt-dix. 

Do we know what we have here?

Four – Twenty – Ten.

You know what i have to do with that?

4 x 20 + 10 = 90

Is it just me that believes this is truly insane?

So, there I was, spinning like my life depended on it, trying to do mental maths. It’s not that the math was difficult—it’s the math plus the music plus the French plus the instructions plus the fact that I was already Sweaty Betty on steroids .

Somehow, I managed to keep up. By the time we hit Quatre-vingt-dix-à-cent, my brain had finally caught up with my legs. But that was the least of my problems.

My face was on fire. My body begged me to stop. At one point, I was on the verge of tears but I told myself, “If all these men can do it, so can you. Think about that glorious post-spin lunch waiting for you.” (Yes, I bribed myself with food.)

The beats kept blasting. The room stayed pitch black. Leticia hovered over me, her eyes boring into my soul, daring me to quit. (It crossed my mind, several times.)

But the camaraderie of the class kept me going. People were whooping and cheering, urging each other on. It felt like a sweaty little cult, and I was grateful for it.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the class ended. I was drenched—no, soaked. My clothes were wet enough to bathe a baby. The pitch-black studio lit up with blue LEDs, and we all stumbled off our bikes like survivors of some chic, Parisian apocalypse.

Leticia high-fived me on my way out. “Come again?” she asked.

“Yes!” I replied, far too enthusiastically.

And the truth is, I will. I’ll go back, better prepared, better hydrated, and hopefully better at French math. But for now, I’ll bask in the post-spin high…and a Croissant at brunch.

Bisous Bisous