Blood, Sweat and Tears

No such vigour in my class!

There was a time when I looked forward to Boot Camp.  Well not looked forward exactly (I'm not an exercise freak), but it was definitely something pleasant in my life.  Fresh air, outdoors, in one my favourite parks, with the Burj Khalifa twinkling away in the background.  We went twice a week, every week, for months, making us lean mean killing machines (well, perhaps not quite, but it did result in one of my best ever compliments: "Man, your body is Coke bottle tight!" God Bless America.)  It also had the added benefit of meaning I could spend time with one of my best friends, catching up on work, boys, and usually ending in a happy chat about what we were having for tea.  The whole thing was permeated with peals of laughter. 

That was, until I discovered evil Boot Camp last night.  It's been a while since I've been (which was a major part of my problem) and in that time I've lost some fitness, and it's gotten hot.  I mean really hot.  I knew I was in trouble when I left the office at 7 and felt that familiar 'eyelids sticking to eyeballs' sensation.  Grim as that sounds, it's the best way I can find to describe the heat that engulfed me.

Undeterred, we headed to the park.  Our lovely trainer J knows us well, after many years of enduring our inane chat and moaning ("we hate running!") and it was lovely to see him again.  But this time he wasn't alone, he had two assistants, whose sole job was to torture us for a full 60 minutes.

The hour that followed was honestly one of the most hideous of my life.  I used to laugh at girls that dissolved into tears during our sessions: I was very nearly one of them.  The heat, the exercises (in small groups so there was nowhere to hide), the fact that I was split up from the best friend (I whimpered) and instead paired with a small Italian dynamo of a girl who took the whole thing very seriously ("Count will you Kelly, I am trying to breathe") conspired against me, and at more than one point, I thought I was going to pass out.

As if all this wasn't enough, the session I'd chosen to 'ease myself back in' was also attended by...a professional photographer.  Yes, as I sweated, groaned, and staggered my way through the session, there he was, like an omnipresent firefly, flashing away in my face.  The first 20 or so shots, I smiled grimly. By the end I was completely oblivious and couldn't care less.  It put me in mind of what mothers say about giving birth with a cast of thousands staring at your nether regions: by that time you could have a marching band walk past and you wouldn't care, such is the level of pain, torture and exhaustion you are suffering.

We somehow made it home, broken women. Will I go again? Maybe.  But I'll need to throw myself around the gym a few times first.  And sit in a heat chamber in my exercise kit to acclimatise. And have an oxygen mask on standby throughout.  You think I'm joking....?

Round One

I do not look like this. Yet.

The torture began again last night. Yes, boxing bootcamp is firmly back in my diary.  I’d been putting off the inevitable for a week or so of the new year – mainly due to diary horrors, weddings, and the Cairo cough which I came back from Egypt with.  Yes, it’s procrastinating, but two full nights a week, starting at 7.30 in the evening, are not always achievable when you’re a) working way too hard b) trying to have a social life.

Anyway I quit moaning and cleared some time to get back involved.  There are so many benefits to bootcamp that I can’t believe I stopped for so long (regular readers will know that way back when, A and I hit it hard for about 3 months.  I was even there the week after the car crash, bandaged but boxing!). 

It’s in one of Dubai’s beautiful parks, meaning lush grass, greenery, and lots of people enjoying the cooler evenings.  This does also mean that you are a subject of much interest from the public – 10 crazy people punching the living daylights out of one another is a sight to be seen, to be fair!  It also means I get to have a good catch up with A – gossiping whilst exercising definitely makes the hour fly by! 

Last night we covered topics as diverse as: sex, perfume, work (dull), relationships, clothing, and the compulsory: “what are we having for tea later”.  A treat!

Despite dreading the whole thing I really enjoyed it, and woke up this morning feeling sprightly.  I’d expected to feel like I’d been hit by a truck.  Bootcamp, I never thought I'd say it, but I missed you!

Torture

Regular readers will know that for some time now I’ve been torturing myself at boxing bootcamp. I ummed and ahhed about signing up for ages, mainly because it’s twice a week (on school nights) and starts at 7.30 pm – ridiculous as this might sound I frequently leave work much later than that so getting there can be a chore. Two nights a week does rather eat into your social life too – given that I’ll work late on at least one night of the week, it really only leaves one free night in the week for friends/dates etc. Not easy!
And sure enough it’s been hard to get there recently. Obviously in December I abandoned it (very hard to fit it in around mince pie eating and carol singing!) and then January was a bit of a nightmare due to working late and work trips. Anyway this week I’ve been back on board, and very quickly learnt a harsh lesson; don’t ever stop exercising. Because when you start again, you will want to die.

Bootcamp in itself is brilliant; it’s outside, with the city’s twinkling skyline as a backdrop. Beats the tedium of the gym any day. But after an intermittent exercise routine it is harsh, to say the least. We always start with a run, then a 15 minute warm-up, which last night consisted of interval training – two minutes of shuttle runs, sit-up with a medicine ball, push-ups, squats, the list goes on. And we had to do the whole thing twice. Then it was the boxing, two minute sets of hideous pain. I’m not a cryer and I’ve never been sick when exercising, but I came close to both last night. When finally were allowed to sit down the pleasure turned to pain when we realized we were doing a minute each of crunches, push-ups and planks. Eurgh.

We limped out of the park broken women, vowing to hit the gym at the weekend. That said, it is brilliant. Quote of the evening from James (the delightful 24 year old trainer, and reason enough to attend, really): “Kelly, I know you don’t hate me, it’s just the exercise talking.” Bless.