Summer at Blue Sands Cove

3. Spinning-2

‘Faster, scum!’ Doreen shouted. ‘You’re in the prison yard, and some g**g boys have got a beef. They’re coming after you. You’re not man enough to take them down, so what are you going to do? Train, train, train!’

The whir of the spinning bikes wasn’t quite loud enough to cover the gasps from the desperate riders.

‘You know how I got this scar? Some punk in the mess hall fleeced me half an egg. You know how much damage a plastic spoon can do? I took a tray in the face for my troubles but he’s walking with a limp for the rest of his life. Faster, worms!’

Grace, unsure how a plastic spoon could cause a limp but not willing to ask, gritted her teeth and pedaled. She felt like she’d climbed the Hill of Suffering a dozen times over. She glanced at the clock. Five minutes left. A handful of people had already run out of the room in tears, and those who remained looked ready to break.

‘What do you get if you cross a crowbar with a broken axe handle?’ Doreen asked, pedaling at a manic speed with seemingly no trouble. ‘A whole world of hurt. Are you feeling the pain yet, you useless rats? No pain, all the shame. If you’re not broken you can’t be fixed, and from the look of you soft-bellied turkeys there’s a lot of fixing that needs to be done. Train, train, train!’

And then it was over. Doreen jumped off her bike and stalked among the remaining riders, arms glistening with sweat.

‘Did you do your best?’ she asked, looking around as though searching for guilty faces. ‘If you didn’t, if you slacked off for one second, now’s your chance to confess.’

Most people looked too exhausted to speak, but a couple slunk out from the back and stood in front of Doreen with their heads lowered. Grace didn’t know their names but she recognised their type: they were the hardcore who went to all the classes they could, and no amount of training was ever enough.

‘I confess,’ said the man.

‘I confess too,’ said the women.

‘You worthless scum,’ Doreen said, shaking her head. ‘Get down and give me fifty. Now!’

The two got on the floor and started doing press-ups. At about twenty-five, Doreen put one foot on the backs of each and had them lift her. As she rose up and down like some nightmarish jack-in-the-box, arms folded and a scowl on her face, she looked around the rest of the group.

‘These two are brave,’ she said, even as the woman began to cry. ‘They have guts, spirit, heart. The rest of you are weak, spineless worms. I know you didn’t try hard enough, but you were too scared to confess. Fear is your greatest enemy. Fear loses fights. Fear breaks you. Do not be afraid. Over the next few classes I will beat the fear out of you. Class dismissed.’

As the two confessors finished their press-ups and collapsed in a heap, the others hurried to get out of the room before Doreen singled them out for any further punishment. Grace grabbed her bag and ran for the changing rooms. By the time she got there, a couple of girls were being sick, others were crying. Grace patted the arm of one, who was fumbling with a pack of cigarettes.

‘Jenny, you mustn’t smoke in here.’

Jenny’s arm shook. ‘Do you want one?’

Grace gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Tempting as it is, I’ll pass.’

‘Anyone got any booze?’ someone asked.

‘I do,’ someone else answered, voice unsteady. ‘Someone go and ask if they’ve got any paper cups on reception.’

With a regretful smile around the changing room which had once been filled with laughter and casual chat at the end of every class, Grace shouldered her bag and headed out, not even wanting to stay long enough to shower. If Doreen was their new instructor, it was time to look for a different gym, or perhaps give up spinning entirely.

As she headed outside, the cool evening air shocking her still-sweaty body, her phone buzzed in her pocket.

How was spinning class?

Grace smiled. It sucked. Magic Mike has hurt his groin. His replacement is this ex-con nutjob. I think I’m going to quit. I don’t think I could survive another class.

One more reason to come down and stay for the summer. This morning I got a text from Ben. The school kid we hired last summer? He’s going surfing in South Africa this year so I need someone to work his hours at the café.

Grace stared at her phone for a long time. How would it be, going back? She hadn’t lived in Blue Sands for a decade, and time had fuzzed out all the stuff she didn’t like—the terrible weather, the i***t tourists, the greater i***t locals who’d gone nowhere in their lives—leaving only the good stuff.

The evenings on the beach. The barbeques. The rollers offshore, and the shirtless guys sitting on the promenade. The sunsets, the clink of pint glasses, the call of seabirds and the salty aroma of the sea.

She had been a teenager when she left. Now she was a grown woman with a job and a flat. Responsibilities.

She couldn’t go back, but the temptation was there, she had to admit.

I’ll think about it.