You’re Doing Just Great

By Amy Coward

Ahh…going to the gym. Many of us go on a regular basis, but do any of us really want to? Well the answer is yes apparently. There are people out there who take this gym thing very seriously and relish every moment. I met such people not too long ago.

After trying several different classes at the gym, I recently decided to join a HIIT class to build some strength. I am pathetically weak. And it’s not that I think I might need to rescue someone from a burning car sometime or need to climb a tree to escape a bear. I would, however, like to continue walking up the steps into my house or getting back up when I fall down. Simple things really.

Anyway, HIIT stands for high impact interval training and I thought it couldn’t be too bad. When you say interval, I think of those days when I was a member of a circuit-training gym where you go from station to station and do different activities working all muscle groups.  What I did not realize was that unlike my circuit training experience, HIIT class came with a trainer, a trainer of the Boot Camp variety, whose main role in life what to put you in pain.

When I arrived at the class, the women looked pretty serious. No make-up or fancy hair here, no color-coordinated gym outfits, just muscle definition and a discussion of their latest weight-bearing triumph. Men were there too — big, muscular men who looked like regulars for sure. One wore a shirt with the tagline “I survived the leatherneck.” And the guy looked like he could survive anything including whatever a leatherneck was.  I had the feeling I was in over my head.

When class was about to begin, the trainer said the goal of this class was not to throw up. Good I thought. Not interested. Then he gave us all a run-down of what to do at each station and how to use the equipment without injury. Good thing he did. I had no idea what any of this stuff was. The room looked like a torture chamber and truth-be-told, it kind of was. At each station, we had 30 seconds to do the exercise, then 6 seconds to get to the next station. Sounds like not much time to endure something, but believe me, that 30 seconds felt like 30 minutes. At station one, were kettle bells of various weights that we were to swing. At another, a strap-like contraption called a TRX (designed by the military) was in place to do pull-ups and other moves using your own weight as resistance. Now keep in mind, I am here because I am weak. No upper body strength to speak of and only running as an exercise for quite some time. Weight lifting and certainly using my own weight as resistance were totally foreign to me. Something called a Bosu ball, a half ball really, was next for us to jump on and try to balance. Yeah, right. And there were ropes as thick as my thighs and as long as the room that we were supposed to swing. I think they weighed 40 pounds! Push-up stations were in the mix, too, and the trainer was crazy enough to put weights there as if I could really lift a weight IN ADDITION to lifting my body off the ground. Crazy. I was soon to find out just how much sweat I could leave on the mat trying to do that move.

Of all the men and women in the class, only one man was my age. Everyone else was at least 20 years younger than me, maybe 30. In addition to that clear advantage, they all looked like weight-lifting pros and I was clearly the newbie. I huffed and puffed around the circuit, keeping up as best I could. My arms just quivered at the push-up station. After being corrected on my form by the trainer, one young woman said, “You’re doing just great!” I had to wonder if that sentence was to be finished with “for someone your age.” I was not sure. Maybe she was being nice, but in my pain, I kind of wanted to slap her. (Not really but you know what I mean.) I kept on and gave her a head nod that said, “I’ve got this” even though I clearly did not.

All through the class, the trainer repeatedly said things like, “your legs should be on fire!” closely followed by “you’re welcome.” He would smile his sadistic smile and I would respond with a grimace. After 40 minutes of this, I wasn’t sure I was going to survive. I was very relieved when the trainer said, “that’s it” only to find out he meant we were finished with the circuit and would now work on our core. Ugh. For the next 10 minutes, we moved quickly from sit-ups to planks to side planks. My abdominal muscles were cramping. I was nearly crying. How important could strength be really? Do I really need this agony? Finally, we finished and cooled down a bit. I was spent. I was exhausted. I was seriously questioning my sanity in even being here.

Maybe I should have stayed with Zumba. Maybe I should just run. Maybe I should go lay on the couch and binge-watch something on Netflix. But then I looked around the room and realized everyone else was spent too. They were exhausted and sweating. One of the guys was groaning. I smiled a little. I had hung in there with the best of them and I knew I would be back. Yes, I would hate it. Yes, I would complain. But I would also feel a little cocky too. Maybe I’ve got this after all.