I was never a big exercise person. When people would ask me if I run, I would reply, "Only when chased."

I was never a big exercise person. When people would ask me if I run, I would reply, "Only when chased."

As I got older, though, I realized that diet alone was not going to undue all those years of finishing the leftover macaroni and cheese off my kids' plates. I reluctantly joined a gym and half-heartedly attempted any number of zumba/pilates/crossfit classes to try to find the workout regimen that would turn me into a fitness fanatic. Sadly, the only exercise I seemed to embrace was the one that involved climbing the stairs with the laundry basket, and that was not for so much for the love of exercise but the need for clean underwear.

Then one day, someone invited me to try a spin class. For the uninitiated, spinning involves riding a stationary bike to blasting music in the dark. Although on paper it might not seem that appealing, I kind of liked the rhythmic motion of the ride, the rocking tunes, and the fact that I didn't have to worry about falling off or hitting a tree. Pretty soon I was hooked.

Unfortunately, I was also sore. I soon discovered that the key to successful spinning was all in the gear.

Checking out the other spin-sters in my class, I saw that while I was dressed in regular workout clothes, everyone else looked like they were racing in the Tour de France.

Not wanting to be left behind, I headed to the nearest bike store and got outfitted with padded bike shorts, breathable bike shirts, and special bike shoes that lock into the pedals.  I spent a small fortune on bike stuff, but figured since I was committed to this new hobby, it was a good investment in my comfort and also made me eminently more spin-worthy.

Thrilled with my new spin stuff, I immediately ran home and put everything on.

"How do I look?" I asked my husband, modeling my new spin clothes for him.

"Do you have a race today, Lance?" he asked me.

"This is for my spin class," I responded.

"Isn't it a little overkill?" he wondered, noting my bike gloves and water bottle belt.

I sniffed at him. "This is what all the serious spinners wear!"

He shrugged and I left to go spin. But when I got to the gym, I found out the spin class had been cancelled. In fact, the whole gym was closed. Apparently a water line had burst and flooded the entire fitness center.

As I stood outside the door lamenting the temporary loss of my workout regimen, another gym member walked up and read the notice on the door.

"Well, that stinks," he commented.

"I know," I replied. "I was all set for my spin class."

He checked out my spin gear and shrugged. "Guess you're going to have to go out for a real ride."

"I would except for one thing," I said.

"What's that?" he wondered.

"I don't own a bike."

Tracy's new book, "Lost in Suburbia: A Momoir. How I Got Pregnant, Lost Myself, and Got My Cool Back in the New Jersey Suburbs," is now available. Get it on Amazon and everywhere books are sold!