My personal trainer (sorry, I know it’s a wank to talk about your personal trainer, but I do have one and she makes me work really hard) has been revealing a new and sadistic side over the last 2 months that at times have me wondering why I pay such good money to cop such amazing abuse. Not verbal, although there have been times when I am dripping sweat and about to collapse on the floor under 20kg of weights and she says something like “isn’t this fun?”, it comes bloody close. She really needs to redefine her idea of fun – I think we may have different interpretations of the word. For me, fun means lying on a beach, drinking long island iced tea and having buff, gorgeous, half naked men bring you drinks. Whole lot of fun happening there. What is NOT my idea of fun is running so fast on a treadmill you think your thighs are about to burst into flames and then doing 3 zillion bench presses. It farking hurts, is distressing for everyone in the immediate area because that type of exercise tends to stir up my gut (fluff-o-rama) and results in the whole “walk like a duck” phenomenon for 3 days afterwards.
Last week Sophie hit new heights (or lows) of “how to work out”. My long suffering training partner, Sue, and I turned up and we started off with a jog on the treadmills to warm up. I was about 2 minutes into this when I spied 2 piles of CAR TYRES in the training room. Not seeing any cars nearby, a feeling of dread crept over me that had nothing to do with the sudden realisation I had forgotten to put on any knickers under my exercise gear and I now had seams going into new and exciting places. Sophie then bounded up and said “I’ve got some great new equipment – you’ll love it!!!” Note the number of exclamation marks in there – when your lover says this to you as he (or she) bounds into the bedroom with some sexy lingerie and two glasses of champagne (no tyres in sight), you know they are probably telling the truth. When this is said to you by an uber fit trainer who kicks arse for a living and has a great effing stack of car tyres behind her, it can only mean BAAAAAD ju ju.
Sure enough, for the next 45 minutes Sue and I got to pick up tyres (one at a time, thank god), raise them above our heads, RUN (!!!!!!!!!!) for 30 meters, do 10 squats, RUN ANOTHER (!!!!!!!!!!) 30 meters and then do 10 push ups. And now I am so amazingly fit and healthy, I can do pushups on my toes (someone kill me now), not on my knees. I lost count how many squats, runs and pushups I did, but I know by the way Tim had to literally help me out of bed the next morning, it was a fair old effort. What was funny (in retrospect) was the look on the faces of the rest of people in the gym at the time. The whole “tyre training” episode took place in front of the treadmills bikes, rowing machines and stair climbers, so everyone else working out got to watch Sue and I turn colour from pink to puce to a colour that had a few of them murmuring that we may need an ambulance. To say that the whole spectacle had some of them galloping for the reception desk to cancel their PT session with Sophie would be an understatement. What topped it off was a few potential clients being shown through the place and as I jogged past the, tyre over my head and loudly letting one rip (sorry, no room for a nice way of saying it), the girl doing the tour was saying it was a “lovely gym with modern equipment, a quiet atmosphere and trainers who are there to help you achieve your goals”. Now, hands up everyone whose fitness goal is to be able to run around with a tyre over their head and fart at the same time?
I have recovered and can’t wait for tonight’s training session – I am thinking that Sue and I are likely to be confronted with cabers that we will be expected to run up and down the street with and then balance on our heads whilst we do sit ups. Yee hah!
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