Let's Get Physical

Personal Trainer

I am a strong believer that if a job is worth doing then it should be done properly! So, I have just re-joined this super-duper gym in town. Now, I did say I am not an exercise type person but it has never stopped me from joining the odd gym or two. I’ve been a member at David Lloyds, Esporta, Virgin Active, LA Fitness and Holmes Place (now that is a blast from the past!). But my current independent gym is the real deal; its light years ahead of the others I’ve been to, although I’m no expert. It’s clean, friendly, and everything is done by electronic key! So no fumbling for padlock and keys for lockers, or note pads and paper to note progress, and no more pressing buttons to set up equipment; it’s all done with your key, so NO EXCUSES!!!

I’ve “kind of” got a personal trainer for two reasons, other than just having one because “bionic woman” has one whom, I must say, she swears by. I need one because I have no idea what any of the equipment in the room does, and because I am competitive as hell. When left to my own devices I do things when I’m good and ready; having a 6’ 6” oiled Johnny Bravo-type beefcake standing over me barking can only be a push in the right direction!

So, I’m ready, hooked up with my state-of-the-art trainers I got whilst out in the States, and a slim-fitted work-out kit; I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and am surprised to see a sporty athlete staring back at me. What a fraud!  I get to the Gym and I kind of know my way around, and I meet up with my trainer and to be honest we were both a little surprised. The image of my imagined 6’ 6” beefcake vanished and was replaced by his leaner, shorter unoiled brother!  Judging by his expression he obviously expected to see a nervous, plus-size lady, this was confirmed when he said “Your application form says you never work out and collapse after a flight of stairs.” Knowing the show I was about to put on, I told him honestly that looks are very deceiving but thankfully he missed the double entendre.

So, I was asked to hit the treadmill at a comfortable pace for 10 minutes to warm up. I expertly walked over to the treadmill, set it to 3, and walked my butt off! After what seemed like ages (but was really only 3 minutes) in the machine began to beep and flash at me with a huge red heart pulsating in the corner, and the words in bold text, “HEART RATE TWO HIGH.” I looked over to my left just in time to see the guy two treads down from me smirk as he sprinted on like a gazelle. I simple took my hand of the pulse plates and took it all in stride (no pun intended) whilst my chest felt like it was going to explode!

Seven minutes in and “Johnny” comes over looking very dismayed at my lack of pace. Before he could say anything I told him that I’d speed up for the last few minutes, at which he seemed satisfied and stood back to watch my big finale. At this point, though, I had no juice in my engine to crawl those last 3 minutes, let alone sprint it. Buying for time I reached for my water bottle to take two long swigs and cranked it up to 5.5. I looked at Johnny, who didn’t seem impressed, so I pushed up one more time but unfortunately my hands were trembling so I accidentally double-tapped it to 7. Now he seemed satisfied. After 10 seconds in at this pace I was ready to call it a day. I couldn’t think of anything other than the pain in my sides and the burning in my chest, but then my friendly gazelle decided to speed up  and it was on!

Keeping his pace, I eventually felt comfortable enough to let go of the safety bar and pump my arms as he was doing. The pain was so excruciating I wished for death; it never came, and I refused to give up, pass out or pee myself (which I was at the point of doing, honestly). Then, suddenly, I could no longer feel the pain; it just vanished. All I could think of was my gazelle and the 90 seconds left on the timer. It was the longest 90 seconds I can ever remember, and then there were more beeps and I thought: Crumbs, what now? Are the charging the defibrillator ready to shock me back to life? Then, as if God had heard my cries, he answered, no doubt me being one of his favourites he chose not smite me as previously requested. He probably felt it was way too Old Testament for this swanky gym. No he merely slowed the machine down, and then I realised it was finally over. My ordeal/audition was finally over. I looked at Johnny, who seemed unenthused, and casually stepped off the treadmill. My legs felt like jelly. I then excused myself and headed to the ladies to be violently sick!

But at least I’d done it; at least I’d stayed on the treadmill for as long as I was supposed to.

From the southbank