The above title came from the mouth of my roommate, Miles Alberto Dwertman. He is now officially a contributor to The Bro Journey.


Hello all and welcome to another week of The Bro Journey. If you happen to hold allegiances to the cities of New Orleans, Denver, or New York City (or Newark for that matter), congrats, may your football teams continue to prosper and be fruitfull. If you happen to be a Houstonian (three of whom I work with directly), may you step in many puddles and be the target of many a’bird’s poop. I have nothing else to say besides I spit in your general direction.

Anywho, now that un-pleasantries are out of the way, let me tell you about the mountain I climbed (and descended and climbed again and descended again and so on and so forth times infinity) yesterday evening. I went somewhere that (unfortunately) few men have gone before. A place designed to chew you up and spit you out. A place designed to weed out the weak and punish the strong. A ying to yoga’s yang. Yes, my friends, I speak of the spinning studio. If you’ve ever been to a gym, you’ve undoubtedly seen a room similar to the one I speak of. Stationary bikes, fans, a stereo system of some kind, and that headset sitting idle, waiting to be an instrument of judgment not completely unlike the infamous sorting hat of Harry Potterfame.

He sort of looks like a long-lost british cousin of Mr. Hanky.

I’d been considering a spinning class for some time for multiple reasons, but mostly because I’ve been experiencing workout boredom as of late and almost every gal I know that’s into it is in damn good shape.  However, I still wasn’t sure it was for me. Although I’ve previously ridden a spin bike before, I’d never participated in a group class with an overstrung instructor blasting “Please Don’t Stop The Music” and screeching at you to “give it all you got” and “ride that thing like you stole it.”

After doing some initial stretching, I remained adamant, trying to convince myself of a better option until by chance, something strange happened. They say that sometimes to climb a mountain, you need a Sherpa, a guide, or a spirit to show you the way. Well, although in this instance said-guide wasn’t gnawing on any spiced yack or explaining how to make sure I didn’t die from altitude sickness, he did point me in the right direction.

As I began walking towards the treadmills, I spotted none other than Tim “Texas Forever” Motha F*cking Riggins (aka Canadian actor Taylor Kitsch). Now, as some of you might know, I scorched my way through all five seasons of Friday Night Lights within my first month of moving to the great state of Texas and as those lucky viewers out there know, Tim Riggins was the protagonist wunderkind that played an integral part in what made that show so phenomenal.

"Clear Eyes. Full Hearts. Let's Booze."

As soon as I determined it was in fact him (for a hot second I thought I was just confused, but then I heard him answer his phone and the collision of Canadian yawp and Texas twang that sprung out of his pie hole left no doubt in my mind), I was mildly disappointed that he wasn’t pounding Lonestar tallboys and trying to sleep with half of the women in the gym at that moment. Secondly, I was disappointed that neither Lyla Garrity (Minka Kelly) nor Tyra Collette (Adrianne Palicki) were in tow. Alas.

Anyway, as soon as I made awkward eye contact with Tim Riggins, I was instilled with a level of confidence and strength that I didn’t think was possible. It was as if my blood had turned to gasoline and I had become a decently priced mid-size sedan with hybrid capabilities. I felt awesome, I was ready to take on the beast just beyond the rowing and elliptical machines. I wanted to run up to Tim Riggins while he was on the stair-master, commence in an awesome high five session, and start chanting  “USA!USA!USA!” at the top our lungs while all of the women in the gym stripped down and offered to be Tim’s for the evening while I possibly got a phone number and a smile. Alas, I decided to skip that part and let the dude get his hustle on. After reading Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson’s twitter on a daily basis for the past month or so, I now know that the big dogs (aka members of #TEAMBRINGIT) don’t like to be bothered while getting their fitness on, which is why there is always a ten-foot bubble around me when I lift and why I left Tim Riggins to his devices.

As I got myself settled onto my bike of choice, I realized I was already sweating more than almost anyone else in the room and for those of you who have seen me participate in sports or really any physical activities of any kind, you know that I sweat.  I don’t mean a little perspiration in the under-arm/lower back areas. I’m talkin’ “Holy moly, was it monsoon season at the gym?”/standing on the bridge of (what was once called) Amazon Falls at King’s Island and meeting your watery maker when a tidal wave of what can only be described as “used pond water” soaks you to the bone from head to toe sweat. 

This must've been taken in one of the following states: Minnesota, Maine, or Utah.

Remember the scene in Knocked Up where Seth Rogen is on the verge of passing out when he goes to spinning class with his soon to be wife, played by Katherine Heigl? There were a few dudes that achieved that state of exhaustion. Similarly, there were folks who ducked out after 20 minutes. But not me. I stayed on for all 50+ sweaty minutes of what can only be described as what I imagine Lance Armstrong water-boarding you would feel like. It sucked. The music was terrible. The guy next to me was not happy about how much I was perspiring/most likely drizzling onto him. However, in the end, I felt awesome and am actually excited to do it again. See, you need that terrible music and Pomeranian-esque trainer yelling at you to stick your ass out, fold your elbows in, position yourself in a manner that no man would ever feel comfortable, and HUSTLE.

Overall I thoroughly enjoyed the experience and I recommend to everyone out there who hasn’t taken advantage of the group classes offered at their respected gyms to check them out. Sure, they aren’t designed for those of you squatting weight exceeding that of a family of hippopotami or trying to do 300 bicep curls in your matching Affliction T-style shirts and hats (cough cough Matt Jared cough cough), but if you’re looking for a workout where you don’t have to make decisions, where you’ll be working your ass off, and where you’ll channel your inner freakishly in-shape suburban soccer mom, then why not try it? Also, Tim Riggins was kind of short. Who knew?