Last night's outing to circuits brought with it a rather awkward moment.
The class usually has a few attractive gym-goers, and yesterday was no exception. We all picked a starting circuit (for me, press-ups - my nemesis). Next to me was a Lycra-clad femme fatale, with striking black hair and shapely figure. As the circuits progressed, fatigue set in and the sweat started to pour.
Then, the awkward moment. I had to do a right-side plank, she a left-side plank. This left us inches away from each other, both raised off our hip and staring directly into each others eyes.
Each station lasts a minute, and for sixty seconds we made idle conversation and laughed as we struggled to stay in position.
The poor girl had to endure the sight of me, perspiration dripping onto the mat below, for a full minute of her life.
I don't expect to see her at the next class.
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
Wednesday, 3 November 2010
Spot the idiot in the corner...
Spotters. Any regular gym-goer will understand how important spotting is, and what can go wrong without it.
For the uninitiated, a spotter will support you during a particular exercise, stepping in to help you out when the weight you're pointlessly pushing up and down, or out and in, gets too much for you.
On Monday, I really could have done with a spotter.
First, let's set the scene. I've noticed that a Monday night is the busiest time of the week to work on the guns (or peashooters, as I've christened my biceps). There's been no scientific study conducted, but I can only presume that plenty of folk are looking to give their week a much-needed kickstart, to begin their week as they mean to go on. Most will be looking to work of a particularly glutinous weekend, filled with booze, food and general revelry.
I've been off all day, but I can't bring myself to make the short walk down to Greens. So I wait. Hours of procrastination passes and then I pack my bags and set off. It's 6.30pm. Or, in other words, chock-a-block time at the gym.
I've spoken of the exercise programme given to me by a friend, and tonight I plan on continuing it, beginning week four of six. Eight minutes on the treadmill is followed by a quick 50 push-ups, aimed to get the blood flowing to the chest where much of the strain of what is to come will be placed.
Then, my most hated exercise. Pull-ups. And not just normal ones, where your hands face you with a narrow grip. No, full-blown, Will Smith in I Am Legend-style wide grip with palms facing away from you. It's not as easy as the Fresh Prince made it look. My programme calls for 20, and I deliver, albeit in about seven long, gruelling sets.
I move onto the Smith machine and begin my squats routine. I start with a light weight and slowly build up. I know I've reached my maximum when I feel a wave of dizziness overcome me. A handy tip for anybody looking to get in shape - make squats and deadlifts the centerpiece of your routine. There is nothing better for a full-body workout.
Legs struggling to support me, I take a welcome seat, ready for my next torture session. Incline barbell press. Similar to the typical bench press, the bench you lie on is elevated slightly, placing a greater emphasis on your upper chest.
I begin. The first set passes without incident, as does the second. I add another 2.5kg to each side - hardly a huge amount but enough to feel it on the third set. Still, I manage.
Then, cockiness takes over. I add another 5kg to the bar. I push up, and the bar seems willing to acquiesce. At first, anyway. Five reps in and I'm hurting, but I make an almighty effort for one final push.
The bar will not move. It lays across my chest, quite the thing. I breathe. Don't panic, I think. Just take a moment to relax then push up. It doesn't work.
The gym is heaving, but I don't want to shout for help and draw attention to myself. So I roll the bar down to my knee, planning to sit up and lift it onto the ground.
I stand, but the earlier squats have left my balance off. The bar begins to fall at one side. It's at this point I realise I've made a rookie error - I haven't secured the weights to the bar.
The crash echoes across the gym as the weights slip from the bar to the hard ground below. Now, the other side can't take the strain and does the same. Eight discs come crashing to the floor. Everybody stops, and looks up to see me frantically trying to clean up my mess.
Next time, bring a spotter.
For the uninitiated, a spotter will support you during a particular exercise, stepping in to help you out when the weight you're pointlessly pushing up and down, or out and in, gets too much for you.
On Monday, I really could have done with a spotter.
First, let's set the scene. I've noticed that a Monday night is the busiest time of the week to work on the guns (or peashooters, as I've christened my biceps). There's been no scientific study conducted, but I can only presume that plenty of folk are looking to give their week a much-needed kickstart, to begin their week as they mean to go on. Most will be looking to work of a particularly glutinous weekend, filled with booze, food and general revelry.
I've been off all day, but I can't bring myself to make the short walk down to Greens. So I wait. Hours of procrastination passes and then I pack my bags and set off. It's 6.30pm. Or, in other words, chock-a-block time at the gym.
I've spoken of the exercise programme given to me by a friend, and tonight I plan on continuing it, beginning week four of six. Eight minutes on the treadmill is followed by a quick 50 push-ups, aimed to get the blood flowing to the chest where much of the strain of what is to come will be placed.
Then, my most hated exercise. Pull-ups. And not just normal ones, where your hands face you with a narrow grip. No, full-blown, Will Smith in I Am Legend-style wide grip with palms facing away from you. It's not as easy as the Fresh Prince made it look. My programme calls for 20, and I deliver, albeit in about seven long, gruelling sets.
I move onto the Smith machine and begin my squats routine. I start with a light weight and slowly build up. I know I've reached my maximum when I feel a wave of dizziness overcome me. A handy tip for anybody looking to get in shape - make squats and deadlifts the centerpiece of your routine. There is nothing better for a full-body workout.
Legs struggling to support me, I take a welcome seat, ready for my next torture session. Incline barbell press. Similar to the typical bench press, the bench you lie on is elevated slightly, placing a greater emphasis on your upper chest.
I begin. The first set passes without incident, as does the second. I add another 2.5kg to each side - hardly a huge amount but enough to feel it on the third set. Still, I manage.
Then, cockiness takes over. I add another 5kg to the bar. I push up, and the bar seems willing to acquiesce. At first, anyway. Five reps in and I'm hurting, but I make an almighty effort for one final push.
The bar will not move. It lays across my chest, quite the thing. I breathe. Don't panic, I think. Just take a moment to relax then push up. It doesn't work.
The gym is heaving, but I don't want to shout for help and draw attention to myself. So I roll the bar down to my knee, planning to sit up and lift it onto the ground.
I stand, but the earlier squats have left my balance off. The bar begins to fall at one side. It's at this point I realise I've made a rookie error - I haven't secured the weights to the bar.
The crash echoes across the gym as the weights slip from the bar to the hard ground below. Now, the other side can't take the strain and does the same. Eight discs come crashing to the floor. Everybody stops, and looks up to see me frantically trying to clean up my mess.
Next time, bring a spotter.
Tuesday, 19 October 2010
Rule 2 - Read the small print
Last week, as I struggled with my form on a particular exercise, a trainer offered his assistance.
Correcting my wayward posture, he informed me of a class he ran on a Tuesday night and invited me along.
"We'll get that six-pack showing in no time," he tells me. I don't believe him, but I put a smile on his face by letting him know I'll be there.
The day of the class, and trepidation sets in. 24 hours prior, I'd started a new exercise regime. My former flatmate and self-titled fitness guru came up with a plan for me, and I followed it to a tee. Eight exercises later, and I'm done. My body aches, my legs unstable from the five sets of squats I've endured. But, bizarrely, I've never felt better. The adrenaline rushes through me, and I'm so energised I believe a marathon would be an easy warm-down.
But when I wake up the following morning, I struggle just to get out of bed. My legs have been replaced with two lengths of lead, and it hurts just to fully extend my arms. Ten minutes later, my walk to the bathroom is complete. I sit, because standing is just too painful. Of course, when I sit I regret it immediately - how do I get up?
Problem solved, I decide to kickstart my day with some Bran Flakes (Chris Hoy is on the box, laughing at my pitiful squat attempts) and a protein shake. It's nine hours until the class, and I can see it far enough.
But the time arrives, and I head to the gym. I change, gingerly, and make my way up the stairs slowly. There's a large board in the gym, detailing which class is on in which studio. It also informs you what level its for. I find the circuits class, and then my eyes widen in horror when I see the dreaded word - "advanced". This is not the beginners class I'd expected. Making my way to Studio 1, I'm surrounded by various svelte figures, none of whom have made the same mistake I have. These people were born advanced.
7pm arrives, as I always knew it would. It was inevitable.
I enter. It starts easily enough, with a run around the room. Soon variations are thrown in - stop and do five squats, stop and do five press ups. I keep up. Maybe this won't be so bad after all, I foolishly think. But now its time for the main event. We're split into four groups of seven, with each group assigned to one of four stations. Each has a different 'theme', as it were. One is for abdominal work, the other has barbells, one is step oriented while the other has nothing, yet still manages to be the most brutal of them all.
You do a minute at your assigned station, before moving onto the next, and the next, and the next. 4 stations, 4 minutes. No rest. When all four are complete, the trainer barks: "Take on some fluids!" I reach for my water bottle like its the Holy Grail itself. Round one is over. Sadly, there are five rounds.
I survive. No, I can't manage to last a full minute at every exercise. Endurance isn't a strong point. But, I manage. I get no strange looks, no glances to suggest I'm letting the team down.
Once more, the adrenaline strikes. 45 minutes of agony is followed by five of overwhelming energy. I look into the mirror which stretches across one side of the studio. Looking closely, I see it. It's faint, but visible if you stare hard enough. In tiny lettering, across my forehead - "advanced".
"Put me down for next week," I tell the receptionist as I leave.
Correcting my wayward posture, he informed me of a class he ran on a Tuesday night and invited me along.
"We'll get that six-pack showing in no time," he tells me. I don't believe him, but I put a smile on his face by letting him know I'll be there.
The day of the class, and trepidation sets in. 24 hours prior, I'd started a new exercise regime. My former flatmate and self-titled fitness guru came up with a plan for me, and I followed it to a tee. Eight exercises later, and I'm done. My body aches, my legs unstable from the five sets of squats I've endured. But, bizarrely, I've never felt better. The adrenaline rushes through me, and I'm so energised I believe a marathon would be an easy warm-down.
But when I wake up the following morning, I struggle just to get out of bed. My legs have been replaced with two lengths of lead, and it hurts just to fully extend my arms. Ten minutes later, my walk to the bathroom is complete. I sit, because standing is just too painful. Of course, when I sit I regret it immediately - how do I get up?
Problem solved, I decide to kickstart my day with some Bran Flakes (Chris Hoy is on the box, laughing at my pitiful squat attempts) and a protein shake. It's nine hours until the class, and I can see it far enough.
But the time arrives, and I head to the gym. I change, gingerly, and make my way up the stairs slowly. There's a large board in the gym, detailing which class is on in which studio. It also informs you what level its for. I find the circuits class, and then my eyes widen in horror when I see the dreaded word - "advanced". This is not the beginners class I'd expected. Making my way to Studio 1, I'm surrounded by various svelte figures, none of whom have made the same mistake I have. These people were born advanced.
7pm arrives, as I always knew it would. It was inevitable.
I enter. It starts easily enough, with a run around the room. Soon variations are thrown in - stop and do five squats, stop and do five press ups. I keep up. Maybe this won't be so bad after all, I foolishly think. But now its time for the main event. We're split into four groups of seven, with each group assigned to one of four stations. Each has a different 'theme', as it were. One is for abdominal work, the other has barbells, one is step oriented while the other has nothing, yet still manages to be the most brutal of them all.
You do a minute at your assigned station, before moving onto the next, and the next, and the next. 4 stations, 4 minutes. No rest. When all four are complete, the trainer barks: "Take on some fluids!" I reach for my water bottle like its the Holy Grail itself. Round one is over. Sadly, there are five rounds.
I survive. No, I can't manage to last a full minute at every exercise. Endurance isn't a strong point. But, I manage. I get no strange looks, no glances to suggest I'm letting the team down.
Once more, the adrenaline strikes. 45 minutes of agony is followed by five of overwhelming energy. I look into the mirror which stretches across one side of the studio. Looking closely, I see it. It's faint, but visible if you stare hard enough. In tiny lettering, across my forehead - "advanced".
"Put me down for next week," I tell the receptionist as I leave.
Wednesday, 6 October 2010
Rule 1 - Don't show off
Bumping into somebody you know at the gym is, sadly, an inevitable reality.
So when I walked into the cardio room of Greens Gym earlier this week, I was dismayed to look across the rows of machines and spot an old friend from high school. Wanting to avoid passing them, I tried to find a free treadmill, but the only ones available were in such a position that I'd have to pass my super-fit ex-pal.
He has his headphones on, so no worries about needing to strike a conversation up. I pass him, and he looks up. We exchange a polite nod and a smile, and I set myself up on the only free machine in sight - directly in front of him.
Now, this is my warm-up. Around eight minutes, I start with a brisk walk on a steep incline before coming back down to ground level and speeding things up. But he doesn't know this is my warm-up.
And that means I've got no choice to go that little bit further and faster than I'd planned. If there's one bit of advice I can pass on on gym-going, it's this: do not show off. Very rarely does it end well. You don't get the better of the gym, it gets the better of you.
So, knowing he's watching, I pound the treadmill, trying to prove that I'm every bit as fit as he is. Soon my lungs are aching, but I've set the machine to eight minutes and if I quit now he'll see I didn't reach 100%. A wave of stupidity overcomes me and I crank the machine up to 16k/hr, in an attempt to show both the machine and my old friend who's in charge.
My heart's pounding, my legs becoming more wobbly by the each agonising second, but I finish it. My hands reach out for support, and I manage to hold myself up.
I turn around, but my friend is gone.
Time to go, I think.
So when I walked into the cardio room of Greens Gym earlier this week, I was dismayed to look across the rows of machines and spot an old friend from high school. Wanting to avoid passing them, I tried to find a free treadmill, but the only ones available were in such a position that I'd have to pass my super-fit ex-pal.
He has his headphones on, so no worries about needing to strike a conversation up. I pass him, and he looks up. We exchange a polite nod and a smile, and I set myself up on the only free machine in sight - directly in front of him.
Now, this is my warm-up. Around eight minutes, I start with a brisk walk on a steep incline before coming back down to ground level and speeding things up. But he doesn't know this is my warm-up.
And that means I've got no choice to go that little bit further and faster than I'd planned. If there's one bit of advice I can pass on on gym-going, it's this: do not show off. Very rarely does it end well. You don't get the better of the gym, it gets the better of you.
So, knowing he's watching, I pound the treadmill, trying to prove that I'm every bit as fit as he is. Soon my lungs are aching, but I've set the machine to eight minutes and if I quit now he'll see I didn't reach 100%. A wave of stupidity overcomes me and I crank the machine up to 16k/hr, in an attempt to show both the machine and my old friend who's in charge.
My heart's pounding, my legs becoming more wobbly by the each agonising second, but I finish it. My hands reach out for support, and I manage to hold myself up.
I turn around, but my friend is gone.
Time to go, I think.
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