Spinning with Rasta-Steve

If I thought spinning with Erin was a heart attack waiting to happen, spinning with Rasta-Steve made me want to throw up on the floor. LOL, sorry. Anyway, no worries that didn't happen but a fire-hose of blood flow through my aorta did.

Rasta-Steve pulled his pony-tail in the back of his head and mounted his bike, a Gloria Estefan gone reggae pumping in the background. His words trailed off into some Jamaican abyss: "Keep yo shoulders a bom... Add mo reseestonce, a bom bom."

My legs were movin, mind in some distant far-away Rasta-island. Were there Caribbean women click clackin seashells and maracas in the background, their coconut-covered breasts and wide-hips would swing sassy to the beat. Rihanna started her whine, and I was flying in the air like Jasmine on Aladdin's carpet.

Keep my dominance and control over the pedals, don't let it take you over. With each song better than the next, I wondered if I'd still have my kishkas by the end of it. Rata ta ta ta ta ta tata ta. A siren in the background, Ulysses can't resist. No amount of sports bras could contain my boobliness. Background dancers shaking rock-the-boat your hips. Help me save me I can't go anymore. 2 hops, 2 hops. 2hops 2hops 2hops.

UH.

Damn.

Are you kiddin, Rasta-Steve? What's. Your. Deal? What's your freaky freaky deal? Wow wow wow. WOW wow WOW wow WOW wow.

This hurts. This hurts. But I really like the beat.

Rasta Steve's staring at me. Me. ME. ME! I can't miss a beat no I cannot miss a beat, though my thighs did burn. He had to see me go. "Keep it goin keep it goin keep it goin keep it goin keep it, Left. Left. Left. Left."

5. More. Minutes. More.

Legs. Finished. Spent.