If I had written this post Tuesday night, it would have gone something like this. JHGf,jgd.kuhjh. And no I wasn’t drunk. I would have just been mid post-training spin out.
Yesterday I had my first one-on-one training session with Brian Cochrane – Nike Master Trainer. Hyde Park was our venue and I was the willing victim. How happily I skipped there, like a zebra toward a lion, not knowing that only an hour later I would be leaving shaky, limp limbed and a little dizzy. Ok a lot dizzy.
The session focused partly on cardio but mostly on core strength. Brian bought with him a contraption called the TRX (it even sounds like some prehistoric violent animal). The TRX is a mixture between a trapeze and a set of adjustable straps. If I’d have found it in my best friends flat I would have thought I’d stumbled across a sex swing. But less of that.
Using the TRX you can do all the usual pull-ups, squats, press-ups and sit-ups, but with added fun and games (read extra pain, concentration and sheer determination). I think the correct term for it is ‘suspension training’. My favourite exercise was placing your feet in the hoops, swiveling over so you’re face down on the grass, lifting up to a press-up position and then commencing an elevated press-up. But that’s not all. At each arm crunch, knees must then be driven towards chest. I was actually groaning out loud. I’m in the middle of Hyde Park. On a sex swing On some bright yellow trapeze hoops. Attached to a tree.
NB: This is clearly not me (or Brian for that matter) but it does give you an idea of what I looked like. Minus the bare skin. And the genitals. Sadly my camera had run out of battery.
To be honest I can only feel embarrassment with hindsight; at the time I was so entirely focused on getting through the exercise that Michael Jackson could have moonwalked past – I’d have been oblivious.
I have honestly never been so exhausted after an hours workout. Bear in mind I went to dance college. My every muscle was contracting, quaking and reawakening. In fact I must have looked evidently shell-shocked as Brian dashed off with 15 minutes to go to rescue a bottle of water from a nearby ice-cream van. ‘Hey Bri’ you forgot the flake’ ;0)
I now understand why celebs look as they do. Three of these bad-boys a week, with some healthy eating and a cross-training plan written in and I’d look like Madge within a month. (An incentive to stop perhaps?).
There is no way you can achieve a work-out of this calibre on your own. I would have stopped (well before I even got to the tree), but at 5 reps as opposed to 25, or after 15 minutes as opposed to after an hour, were it not for Brian. He manages to be both encouraging, authoritative, inspiring and good-humoured even when I collapsed out of said press-up position into a crumpled heap cursing him and someone called ohmygodfuckinghellihonestlycantdoanymore.
I think these personal training sessions must be a bit like childbirth. You swear you’ll never do it again, then a day later you’re already gearing up for the second round.
I (stupidly?) followed this up with a 6 mile run around London with Run Dem Crew. Finally returning home at 10.30pm only to discover I was sans house keys and without battery. I didn’t cosmic order that.
I can confirm waking up in less pain than I thought and with less sleep in the eyes. Fingers crossed my body is getting used to the hard graft and I’m pushing through the worst.