Getting progressively achier throughout the day after last night’s Nike Training Club at Virgin Active.
I was flanked by fellow marathon trainees Avril Mair and Jenny Dickinson from Elle magazine looking lithe in black Lycra. Our swept-back hair didn’t last long – regardless of fashion credentials, when it comes to the gym everyone must strip down to sportswear, get sweaty and have their fringe stick to their face.
Training Club is basically Brian’s own version of circuits. There are press-ups, squats, core exercises with weights, sit-ups and jogging, kicking and leaping galore. The guy is a task-master. It’s a good job he’s got a Scottish accent – people with good accents can get away with murder.
It turns out, that unlike running, olives and French mustard, I still detest burpees. I can’t do them – I look like a demented frog and they make me feel about twenty stone. Still, if Bri’ says they’re toning my thighs I’ll sure as hell keep doing them. That and the fact that if I refuse he’ll make the entire class drop and do press-ups. I tried it. Apologies to all. If it’s any consolation my arms are in agony.
After class I quietly thought to myself ‘well that wasn’t actually as hard as I’d anticipated’. Queue smug chuckle. Well… it’s true what they say about pride coming before a fall. I just tried to put a yoghurt pot in the bin and had trouble lifting my arm out beyond 45 degrees and my thighs below a squat. The pot is on the floor. It can stay there.