 |
Article ©
2001 by Urbanview, Inc. Used by permission.
By Charyn Pfeuffer
I'm no slouch when it comes to the active life.
I spend my weekends outdoors -- hiking through
the parking lot to find my car, gardening for some
basil to garnish my pasta, an invigorating bike
ride to the movie rental store. My most active
body part is usually my mouth, but I've been known
to work up a mean sweat in the process. I've tried
countless exercise regimens (all protein, all carbs,
all popcorn) and wasted thousands of dollars on
gym memberships -- and ended up spending most of
my time in the sauna or the hot tub. The gym just
doesn't do it for me. Enclosing that many sweaty
people in a confined space is patently un-motivating.
Not to mention that sports bras were in no way
designed for the comfort of the 36D woman.
Some people manage to get up every day and run,
or to do yoga videotapes at home. That takes a
kind of discipline that somehow escaped me in the
discipline-making process (though I managed to
become proficient at the will power necessary to
try out every new Ben & Jerry's flavor and
to watch every episode of "Sex and the City").
In the confines of my apartment, I can find 101
activities that I'd rather do than sweat. So I
was intrigued -- and a bit intimidated -- when
an acquaintance recommended OutFIT Fitness Boot
Camp to me. I imagined the furrowed brow of a drill
instructor looming over me as I struggled through
my l00th sit up, rising at dawn to be mentally
and physically demeaned, "Sir, yes sir" always
at my lips. It wasn't quite like that -- though
there are some S&M clubs in the city that could
provide a similar experience.
The program requires a five-week commitment (although
drop-in classes are available and you can try a
class for free) at -- gasp -- 6 am, Monday through
Friday. I signed up before I had a chance to consider
that the world as it exists before 9:30 am is not
very familiar to me; I work from home and have
minimal structure and routine in my life. The prospect
of five weeks of discipline, early bedtimes, and
pain was not taking on any sort of romantic sheen
in my mind. It took a bet from my boyfriend --
that I wouldn't survive two days -- to push me
into action, and I made a mental commitment to
myself not only to complete the program, but to
make a gung ho effort.
Some people go into these programs looking for
companionship; I wasn't on mission to make new
friends. I could barely imagine myself being anything
that resembled "nice,"
much less sociable, at that early hour. I went
into the program hoping to jumpstart a fitness
routine, one which would hopefully extend past
the five-week period. If I could decrease the available
surface area on my body on which my cellulite could
spread, I wasn't going to complain. Herewith my
daily diary, logging the pain, the sweat, the ultimate
redemption. Get out the Kleenex; it's a true success
story.
I think I slept a total of 15 minutes last night,
I was so anxious about the morning ahead of me.
Would I be able to complete the exercises? Would
my cohorts tie my shoelaces together in some horrible
hazing? Would I suffer a crippling sports injury?
The 25 days stretched in front of me like a vista
of pain, each day taunting me with hours of panting,
dripping, and that all-too-familiar hands on the
knees stance that vanquished athletes always seem
to take after suffering extreme humiliation. At
5 am, my alarm startled me out of bed and I groggily
threw on my makeshift athletic wear and headed
to class.
The boot camp group met near the San Francisco
marina. There was a fairly even mix of boot camp
veterans and novices, all clad in spandex, sweatpants,
and logoed cotton tee shirts. Physical shapes and
sizes varied from post-pregnancy plumpness to marathon
runner sveltitude. Not one person sported a coordinated
workout OutFIT or too-tiny, breast-baring sports
bra. The veterans acted like seasoned pros: calm,
cool, and unafraid. They freely dished with one
another about their jobs, families, and weekend
plans. I, on the other hand, already had sweaty
palms -- and I'd yet to physically exert myself
in any way. I could only nervously glance from
face to face of my classmates, like a cornered
wild beast, and anxiously await instruction.
My class of about twenty people is being taught
by Jennifer Jolley and her assistant, Danielle
Paskins. Jen called the group together for an initial
briefing. She didn't yell, blow a whistle, or crack
a whip. Not yet. She just asked everyone to gather
around her. Those who'd been to boot camp before
were lined up in two rows and sent off to run with
Danielle. The rest of us, feet in constant motion,
got an introduction to the program.
Jen is owner/founder of OutFIT Fitness and a reporter
for KTVU and KRON; she's a proud new mom, eager
to get back in shape. A petite blonde, Jen has
the energy of a toy dog on speed. Normally I'm
wary of people who are so perky in the morning,
but her enthusiasm is contagious and I warmed up
to her pretty quickly. She repeatedly emphasized
going at our own pace, while working to push ourselves
without getting hurt. She also stressed the importance
of not judging our performance against others.
We were told to stay in constant motion throughout
the entire one-hour class (wriggling toes does
not count, apparently). And if you decide to pull
a no-show, Jen promised to call you at home and
make the present classmates do push-ups. This brilliant
guilt-induced method of accountability surely would've
increased my attendance at other functions throughout
my life. The paperwork includes a section where
participants write down their three goals for the
program. I write that I want to gain upper body
strength, get used to waking up early, and devote
one hour of the day entirely to myself without
any exterior distractions. The thought of having
sixty whole minutes to myself on a daily basis
-- without worrying about deadlines or making mental
to-do lists -- held more appeal than a session
with a shrink. I overheard one woman boldly stating
that her objective was to meet a boyfriend. I had
to giggle.
Unfortunately for her, there was a testosterone
shortage in boot camp. There were only five men
in the class, and most were wearing wedding bands.
After a few "simple" assessment tests
(performed as a group, but scored individually),
and a brief bout of performance anxiety, I was
on my way to five weeks of healthy living. The
tests included crunches, push-ups, and a mile-and-a-half
run. I was able to complete all of the tests, but
not without my heart rate pulsing at an alarming
rate and feeling totally self-conscious of my abilities.
I did manage to leave feeling truly inspired. I'd
seen the sunrise and I realized that there was
hope for me after all.
The outdoor classes consist of cardiovascular training
(running, jumping rope, obstacle courses, stairs,
and hill training), strength training (lifting
weights, exercise bands, push-ups, crunches, and
Pilates), and flexibility training (more Pilates,
yoga, and daily warm-up and cool-down stretches).
Today we ran. And ran. And ran. And jumped rope.
I admit: I lack basic coordination skills. I have
the scars on my knees to prove it. I didn't expect
to skip rope like Sylvester Stallone in Rocky,
but was disappointed to find that I could barely
make ten complete rotations before getting hopelessly
tangled. This is not exactly the area I expected
to excel in least.
I fared much better with the weights. I opted for
a pair of 5 lb. weights for starters, and envisioned
super buff arms -- the kind you show off in strapless
dresses with a golden tan. Jen interrupted my reverie
and informed us that women get muscle tone in the
arms, while men gain bulk. The tan, I'm told, comes
from elsewhere. Damn. Next, we tackled the stairs.
I'm sure you recall the "up, up, down, down" routine
from gym class. We closed class with what seemed
like a thousand crunches and a cool-down stretch.
I went home and straight to bed, pitying my poor
classmates who had to go to work and actually be
productive. I found that returning to bed after
the session tricked my body into thinking that
it's truly rested. That evening, I met up with
my boyfriend and had difficulty lifting my arms
to hug him. It was a stern realization: weeks of
pain lay ahead.
My arms hurt so badly this morning that I had trouble
driving my non-power-steering car. After a warm-up
run, we did an obstacle course, the same one that
Julia Roberts reportedly does. There were five
hula-hoops lined up. The first one said 5, the
next one said 4 and so on. The idea was to do a
hop-up (kind of like a jumping jack), drop down
into a push-up, repeat the designated amount of
times and sprint to the next hoop. After completing
the five hoops, there were lunges, leaps, side-to-side
jumps, and backwards sprinting to be done. Jen
kept belting out, "Come on guys, you can do
it. Keep moving, keep moving!" I believed
her when she said, "Welcome to butt camp." Mine
hurt. Badly.
I knew something was wrong when the sun was up
when I opened my eyes. I slept at my boyfriend's
and the alarm didn't go off. I first panicked --
what would Jen say? -- but then I turned the rage
on myself. After only four days I'd fallen off
the boot camp wagon. It crossed my mind that the
boyfriend would have to go if I was at all serious
about this program. Do soldiers have time for boyfriends?
Do members of elite military units make time for
friends? I got home at 7:30 am, went for a run,
and called Jen (before she could call me) to see
what exercises I could do at home to keep up with
the class. I was shocked that I actually missed
the pain, the sweating, the heavy breathing.
Today was devoted to stairs, primarily sprinting
up and down them and doing push-ups in an upwardly
mobile manner. A woman in my class and I discussed
(between heaving breaths) the virtues of the group
atmosphere, and how it provides constant motivation
and a certain level of accountability and shame.
She'd spent $2300 on an at-home EFX machine and
has used it as an expensive clothes hanger ever
since. Mind you, this woman has a three-month-old
baby and a body that I've only seen in magazines.
My boyfriend asked me last night, "Well, once
you know the routines and movements, can't you
just do it on your own?"
I suppose it's possible, but I've failed at self-disciplined
exercise so many times before. I still have a long
wsiy to go before I reach Wonder Woman status.
5 am wasn't a total shock to my system this morning.
I'm slightly scared. I hope my inner body clock
realizes that this early-morning activity is strictly
a temporary situation. My energy throughout the
day has clearly increased. I manage to squeeze
in a post-workout nap, but from 10 am on, my creativity
is free-flowing and I can write with the energy
of Robert Downey Jr. before rehab.
I made the mistake of staying out until nearly
midnight last night. And having a few cocktails.
Must I sacrifice even girls' night out? The ladies
need me. As a result, this morning was rougher
than expected; I fought off waves of exhaustion
and nausea between jumping jacks and push-ups.
In pairs, we navigated about 10 different stations
of activities in 90-second increments. The activities
targeted all areas of the body, from abs to cardio.
And then came the "speed round." I imagined
myself projectile vomiting the previous evening's
tapas, and moved faster, hoping that sweat and
heavy breathing would deter this possible embarrassment.
I managed to succeed. The hour flew by and I was
back in bed by 7:30 am. Note to self: must turn
into Cinderella by l0 pm nightly, and no excessive
behavior on school nights.
I'm really psyched about completing week two of
the program. (I reserve usage of the word "psyched" solely
for jump-up-and-down moments of pure excitement.)
I feel incredible, physically, and in awe of my
inner-body transformation. The outer-body is doing
pretty well, too: I've lost about 6 lbs. and I
feel much calmer throughout the day. I'm still
short-tempered behind the wheel, but there are
some things that exercise just can't cure.
I hope you're sitting down as you read this. I
did 11, count 'em, 11 pull-ups today. High five,
anyone, anyone? I have never been able to complete
a single, solitary pull-up. Not even during the
Presidential Physical Fitness tests in middle school.
I'm making progress. The focus of today's class
was on tightening and toning. We did innumerable
crunches, various leg stretches, and exercises
with hand weights (interspersed with a lap, series
of dips, or push-ups here and there). I traded
in my usual 5 lb. hand weights for an 8 lb. pair.
I'm optimistically hoping for full mobility and
range of motion later today.
I'm officially halfway through the program. I was
in agonizing menstrual pain this morning, but even
cramps couldn't deter me from kickboxing. I've
read that strenuous exercise is supposed to alleviate
cramps, but I gave it my all and I think it's a
falsehood. Luckily, I was able to relieve some
period-induced angst and aggression by imagining
deserving recipients for every jab, kick, and undercut.
Attacking imaginary assailants proved to be far
more satisfying than a crying jag or a pint of
ice cream.
The fourth week flew by. The daily exercise has
integrated itself nicely into my routine and every
morning I find myself feeling strangely appreciative
for this opportunity to enjoy the Bay Area's early
dawn. Concerned that brainwashing is coming over
me, I check my Gatorade for suspicious residues.
Jen and Danielle spend a considerable amount of
time giving one-on-one pointers and modifications,
so it's almost like working out with a personal
trainer with the benefit of group support. The
variety of day-to-day activities keep motivation
levels up and create new challenges.
Today we did Pilates, the stretching and toning
exercise that has long been the dancer's secret,
recently co-opted by the yuppies. I haven't done
Pilates since I was a wee ballerina, and the subtle
movements gave my already sore body a beating.
The combination of slow stretches and movements,
however, released any tension I had along my spine
and I left feeling completely invigorated. It wasn't
until mid-afternoon that the post-Pilates effects
washed over my limbs and abdominal muscles. I went
online and located a Pilates studio where I could
take weekly classes. My back felt better than after
an hour with a masseur and mentally, I felt extremely
calm. What's not to love about an exercise that
doesn't make you sweat, is done almost entirely
on the floor, but makes your stomach and butt muscles
feel like you've had an all-night sex marathon?
I felt a twinge of sadness at the close of our
final class. I don't even know the names of everyone
in my program, but I felt a kinship and sense of
group accomplishment. Some people were already
geared up for the next session. Others waved good-bye,
some swapped numbers and a hug or two was exchanged.
The only tears that were shed were by Danielle
as one woman crossed the finish line of the mile-and-a-half
run. It really was a sticky-sweet, picture-perfect
Hallmark moment, and I half expected fireworks
to explode overhead. There were no injuries during
the five weeks (unless you consider my sagging
social life), and although a few people left for
vacation, there weren't any out-and-out quitters.
I feel a peculiar thing, and I think it's pride.
I still haven't gotten in touch with my inner Marion
Jones, but I've developed a newfound appreciation
for exercise. (I also shaved two minutes off my
previous mile-and-a-half time.) There's no hope
in trying to make an athlete out of a girl like
me, but give me some fresh air, strap on some sneakers
and a supportive physical presence and it seems
that I can accomplish things that otherwise seemed
impossible. And as the sun rose over my last day
as a boot camp grunt, I gathered my things and
went home. To bed.
|
|
|
|
|
|
