Les Mills has a lot to answer for. Including, but not limited to, my own inability to move today. For it is he who invented BODYPUMP, an hour of self-flagellation in the form of an exercise class that is best described as extreme aerobics but with weights, set to a thumping disco soundtrack.
Once again, I have to question the intelligence of paying money to someone to hurt you, especially in public. But next week sees my three month health review with ever-short-but-terrifying Kim, and so drastic action was needed (alongside the crash diet and not drinking any water for 24 hours before). Hannah, a long-time convert to the church of Mills, recommended this. I used to think she loved me.
The equipment for said class is complex and multitudinous, all "Les Mills BODYPUMP" branded (capital letters mandatory). There's a raised platform, and a bar, and weights that you slide on and off and clip into place depending on the exercise activity. There's also a nice mat, not for lying down on in agony but for press-ups and sit-ups. To complete the picture, peppy Nicole stands at the front with a Madonna-style microphone and tells you what to do. She also does all the moves, with heavier weights than I could manage, smiling, cracking jokes, and singing along. Ugh!
What I would normally consider to be a full workout turned out to be the warm-up. "For the next routine you'll want two-to-three times the weight you just used," Nicole chatted from the front. What?! Like a villainous henchman from a Bond film she unleashed hurt on each muscle and nerve, causing extreme pain but never allowing you to lose consciousness and so find relief (thankfully I didn't embarrass myself that much).
Around we went, lifting from the arms and legs, squat thrusts, rowing, the dreaded lunges, reverse curls...I pushed myself beyond the limits of my endurance which, to be fair, is somewhere around a ten minute walk to the shops. Then, after an eternity of high energy tunes, when the burning under my skin and the screaming in my ears could get no worse, we arrived at the cool-down. This turned out to be the most painful bit of all, as I was encouraged to stretch out the quivering mass of my body in ways that were meant to bring recovery but served only to remind me that at 34 I should be taking it easy rather that partaking in this insanity. I hobbled away, and a long stay in the steam room (slippy, less friction needed to move around) meant I could at least make it home.
After a little digging on Wikipedia it turns out that Les is a New Zealander, so he must actually be a good guy. He won medals in shot and discus at several Commonwealth Games, and even served as Auckland's mayor at the same time as coaching the Kiwi athletics team. The Queen made him a Member of the British Empire, no less. I can only hope that with BODYPUMP and its evil cousins including BODYJAM, BODYCOMBAT, BODYATTACK, etc. we sweat while he sits back relaxing with a cold beer and watching the franchised dollars roll in. Let's see if any of this impresses Kim on Monday. Oh, and if you want to buy some branded clothing...
