Update on Bootcamp: My Second Month
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.
Thanks.
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
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