“JUST THREE MORE COME ON YOU CAN DO IT!!!”
I was on the TRX at the gym. In front of me, a very shouty balding man was repeatedly counting the push-up-things I was doing with all the straps and handles. With each flex and stretch I could feel my muscles shake. ‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO US’ my biceps cried out. The deltoids were silent, praying it would all be over soon.
The whole ten minutes I was imagining how strong I would get so one day I could lift the man over my head, throw him into a bin, and make him realise IT’S NOT THAT EASY WHEN YOU’RE A SLOB.
Krav Maga is the hardest of all the classes you can take at a gym. Treadmills are a walk in the park (oh so unliterally) and even kickboxing was ok, considering I have no hand-eye-leg coordination and tripped over from standing upright.
But this was something else.
Personal trainers are tyrants. They have a smile and that warm personality that suckers you in, the intention of course to motivate you to reach your fitness goal. But I’m pretty sure Hitler was charming to some people. Even Stalin had some friends, y’know, before the famine and his head explosion. Charm hides the most devilish of deeds.
The PT NEVER lets you stop, even if you really are on the brink of death. He would need proof of a few minutes not breathing without a pulse before he would let you so much as take five.
After my arms stopped shaking, we moved onto squats while carrying a 12KG TUBE OF DEATH. While I was struggling to not wee myself through sheer pain, the personal trainer chatted oh so nonchalantly about how one guy did five of these very exercises then had to stop and throw up in the bin. Isn’t that funny? ISN’T IT?!
Oh yeah, he just stopped, ran over to that bin over there and vomited all over. We were all laughing so much!
The arms I could handle. The squats and legwork was was sheer torture. Have you ever felt your muscles shake so much you’re pretty sure you’re going to rip them from your bones? Your thighs will sulk with you for ages. For a week I couldn’t climb stairs like a normal person. I had to get on all fours and crawl up. Sitting on a toilet was impossible. I HAD TO USE THE DISABLED TOILETS.
Oh it’s great for your health and the quickest way of giving you a bod like a non-gristly Jodie Marsh, as well as the added extra of being able to kill a man with one swipe of muscled arm, but really it’s hard going.
After the hour long session that never ended, I hoppled on the treadmill and ran for a bit. Now, in my gym there are three rows of treadmills. Behold my amazing Paint skills.
Much as on a train, there is clear, unspoken gym etiquette. It’s expected, nay, imperative you never choose a row with someone already on it and even still, you choose the machine that’s as far removed from the person in front of you. They’re on the extreme right, you’re on the extreme left. If all three rows contain a sweating, chuffing body, then you choose a treadmill leaving at least a three-person gap. NEVER do you choose a machine directly next to another person if there are others free.
So why, oh why, a man invaded my personal space and chose a machine next to mine when a PLETHORA of rows were free I’ll never know. I was there, running at a slow place, trying to make my body love me again and he starts pelting it at full speed. No bother, I think, he’s probably been a meathead for years. I’m new. I’M NEW.
Merrily wanning (running/walking) away, another guy approaches and choose the machine on my other side. Again, whacks the machine up to marathon speed and starts running as if avoiding his ex girlfriend.
Two runners. Me walking. All in this one little area. I gave up after a while and retreated to the sauna. Ain’t no one need to be shown up at the gym. At least I didn’t puke.