Time for an update on the bootcamp I joined in January 2018 through the Chicago Park District. I’ve trudged through snow, ice, and bitter cold to reach the doors of bootcamp. February has been no exception.
While changing out of snow boots and snow pants I watch the instructor set decorating the room with mats, weights, various contraptions of torture. Seriously, I never have any idea of what’s ahead as so far he has not repeated a routine twice. It’s probably part of the strategy to throw us off our game; no room for complacency. I’m always the last one to get what he’s trying to say. So you want us to do what?
And once I do understand, I’m pretty sure my body can’t do that.
As I mentioned in an earlier post, the instructor cues us or shouts out, sort of like a kapo, stuff like: Challengers take it up a rep or grab the heavier weight. Sometimes he calls them tough mudders (after the race where you steeplechase over mud-covered walls, slipping and sliding, and through obstacles consisting of—MUD)—you tough mudders can probably do it on your toes or with the full kick out. Then he begins to work down: Beginners if you need to you can pulse, just get your shoulder up off the ground, if you need to go down on the weights okay, just be sure to do the squats. ETC. Then finally he looks over at me: and, for Jane, do whatever you can.
Is it so obvious I’m a complete weakling? Actually just doing the warm ups the other day I pulled something. Sheesh. It must be ugly watching me attempt to do the routines he sets out for us. I feel like my body is unhinged in several places. I fling my arms and flail. None of it really exercising. In fact I always know when I’m doing it wrong by the fact I can do it. The first couple times this happened I thought, Whoa, finally, something I can do—only to have him come over and say, You’re supposed to be coming all the way up/down. Oh.
Really he is a nice guy and very easy to follow. If only I wasn’t such a klutz. By the end of the session I'm whimpering. He works us so hard I begin to hallucinate.
I try to let my imagination go. Try to imagine cycling out in the country past windmills, or running along a Malibu beach—instead of sweating through a burpee, instead of toppling over while doing a lunge. I try to groove to the music—a large percentage being about sex. Apparently it is a motivator. There’s one whole song where they repeat on auto-tune—take off all your clothes, take off all your clothes, take off all—you get the message. They’re a teensiest bit sexist, assuming the lady wants it. Then there’s the song where I swear she’s singing mac-n-cheese. Absolutely no idea.
I wake up on Tuesdays and Thursdays and the first thought through my head is: Oh my god, I have to go to bootcamp. But always afterwards, I’m like: I made it without crying! (Sometimes I do cry, nearly all the time I feel like it.) Lately, I’ve begun to see results. Things feel a little tighter, not shaking when I walk. I feel more in control of my body—as if it might start to listen to me when I tell it what to do. My pants fit better.
Good because when you have to wear two pairs in order to fight off hyperthermia on the walk up you need the extra room.
Thanks the Rise Fitness Boot Camp