Cyclepathic Killer

Graphic Caity Hall

It’s March already, which means the number of new faces at Concordia’s Le Gym is down significantly from the unrealistic high of the first week of January.

Still, if you, like me, make the mistake of wandering into the sweaty, muscley All-Star Game of the human body that is Le Gym in a non-January month, be on your guard.

Although the place looks like a normal gym—replete with the terror of being in a room with naked strangers, and did I mention their sweat—it actually conceals a dangerous, potentially deadly secret. A secret called the spin room.

To the naked eye, the spin room is just a bunch of stationary bicycles surrounded by glass walls, but to a connoisseur, the place is pretty much just a palace of torture that would make the Spanish Inquisitors blush and the Central Intelligence Agency jealous.

Should you, like I, make the mistake of entering that hall of damnation, this is what will happen:

After you bike casually for 10 minutes, spinners will begin to enter the room and surround you. They will not address you, nor meet your gaze. Theirs is a code of cycles, and of silence.

Their presence will weave a strange, dulling web over your senses, by which I mean you may be too embarrassed to just leave outright. Pro-tip: This is the moment when you should leave.

Eventually, the dark leader of this bicycle-riding troupe will enter and fill the room with an ominous music, mostly composed of songs like “Titanium” by David Guetta. Then the real dark magic will begin, as she will, smiling, compel you to commit suicide with your own legs.

“Stand up,” she will tell you. Then, “One hand behind your back.” Then, “Sprints!”

Half an hour later, when you flee, mid-class, on the half-formed, barely connected rubbery stumps where your thighs and calves used to be, remember to drink some water. It’s important to stay hydrated when you’re working out. Or dying.

—Alex Manley,
Copy Editor (Deceased)