As you sit here on Facebook, waiting for something to happen, still waiting.. and waiting a little bit more, it hits you round the face as your body is filled with an energy of sheer excitement when one of the top icons turns red. A notification; pretty exciting, a private message; holy shit, what could it say? Please be someone good, or the absolute reason for getting up in the morning, the true …meaning of existence; a friend request, another human being, wanting to be MY friend (if its my Aunt Norma, I will kill myself). It’s so easy to talk yourself out of exercise when we spend so long in front of our computer screens, desperately convincing ourselves that we’re working when most of the time we spend it refreshing Facebook pages, watching YouTube clips of ‘animals doing the funniest things’ and writing pointless blogs…
So after you’ve watched videos of dogs wearing sunglasses and complained about the price of iTunes songs, you maybe, just maybe will write a few lines, or send a few e-mails – It took 4 hours to do but works done for the day. Your sat at your desk dreaming of slumberland and up pops another annoying status from The Bootcamp Company, telling you to get off your arse and do something, you allow it to take over your mind for about 2 seconds, a surge of chemicals rush to your brain telling you its a shit idea, your holiday isn’t for ages and it would be such a waste if you had to throw away that Zinger Tower meal youve just bought, so you proceed to ping elastic bands at the person sitting opposite you and stick on another video of cats break dancing.
The holidays are looming and your physique still resembles that of a swollen pear, now the panic sets in but you still manage to talk yourself out of ever getting your heart rate above 60 beats a minute ‘Ahh I know, i’ll just wear a t-shirt on the beach and pretend i’m sunburnt’ bore off. If you fall into this category, the chances are you’ll never get the washboard abs and defined arms you spend your evening looking at in Heat magazine whilst you cry into your KFC, are prettty slim. You have now come to terms with the fact that no one else will do the work for you and everybody needs to have a starting point. Now we’re getting somewhere.
The inevitable questions role off your tongue quicker than Usain Bolt with a rocket up his arse. Will I fit in? Will I be the only bloke? Will I be the fattest, the skinniest, or the tallest? Does it matter that I haven’t exercised since I was 6? Or my personal favourite ever ‘Does it matter that I wear glasses’ True story. Of course you are well within your rights to be a bit nervous before starting to exercise, the thought keeping you awake at night that youre going to be sweating and grunting in front of the stereotypical gym twat, young fit athletes wearing spandex gym gear thats tighter than a crabs backside and clearly made for someone half their size, while you turn up in a t-shirt youve borrowed from your Dad, and some trainers that you’ve nicked from the lost property at work. Let me clear this up now, this is not the case. We have marathon runners, big people, small people, young and old people, Dave the butcher even turns up, and he wears glasses!
So you reluctantly sign up for a block, and turn up for your first session where youre greeted by huge lorry tyres, battling ropes, kettle bells, weighted balls and a bunch of other torturous devices layed out ready to dig you an early grave. It’s too late to turn back and hide in your car, so you slowly make your way over, trying to distract any attention from yourself, you want to get in and get out as soon as you can. 7 squats in and your legs feel like they’ve been hacked at with a machete by a muscular Russian called Oleg. Next comes the run, this you can manage. You run for the bus all the time, this will be easy, right? You get in amongst the crowd and set off, you go off like the clappers and as you realise youve been running for about 12 seconds your lungs are burning so much that you may just cough one up at any second, muttering to yourself ‘Come on, don’t come last.. shit, i’m last’ you get back and collapse in to a heap. Welcome to bootcamp.
Next up, the circuit. 10 stations of sheer hell. You get the press ups out the way, and surprisingly feel ok. You know burpees are next and you’ve heard the horror stories. 3 burpees in and you wish you were dead. As you lay with your face in the mud and grass hanging out of your mouth, you hear the 10 second count down and lay still hoping no one will come over to get you to do 1 more rep. You want to devise an escape route but now escaping seems too much like hard work so you stay and brave the rest of the circuit. After you’ve necked your entire bottle of water in one go, the thought of ever walking again seems about as difficult as playing Mozarts symphony number 3 in E flat ,with your feet, wearing a blind fold at the same time. Finally, after what seems like hours the sessions is complete. You’ve made it. You feel like you’ve been run over by a horse, but you’ve made it. Once the pain subsides you strangely look forward to your next beasting, seeing huge improvements each time and laugh at the fact that you were so nervous to start with.