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.
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