Ab-icide redux

In the previous episode I described my participation in a body-trashing workout.  Here’s what happened next…

I set my alarm for 1930 to meet the guys for a 2000 spinning class.  Yep…I got up early just for the abuse.  It was a dicey proposition though – my legs still didn’t work right.  I had limited ability to lift them…putting on my shoes required both hands and the edge of the bed.

Down at the gym the guys were nowhere to be found.  Ha!  Trumped by the old guy, eh?  Fine, I’ll just work out on my own.  I wandered over to the gym (we have a gymnasium, a cardio building, and a weights building) to see if they’re in there.  They’re not, but a clipboard is thrust into my hand.  “Everyone sign in before the class starts please!”, said a pleasant (female) Australian voice.

From reading the class schedule earlier I know there’s a step aerobics class starting now, and I do see steps set up on the floor.  What could make more sense than taking a step aerobics class when I can’t lift my legs more than 6 inches?  I signed the class roster.

The good news was that it wasn’t a step aerobics class.  It was much, much worse.  It was something called “cross training” or “full body workout” or “nailing your full body to a cross”, I can’t remember exactly.

A half-ball thing.

Picture 25 stations ringing the gym, some have steps, others have either dumbbells, weighted bars, mats, and a couple of those half-ball things that require balance to stand upon.  Throw in some cones and an air horn and we’re ready for action.

Here’s the drill:  each person starts at a station, works out, and moves on when the air horn blows.  Pretty simple, except the participants determine when the air horn blows.  One of the station involves the cones – start at the base line, run to the first set of cones and back to the base line, then to the second set and back, third and back, fourth and back, twice.  The reward is getting to blow the air horn.

The class consisted of a mostly non-Americans, either British or Australian, a couple of us from the Air Force, and a woman in the Army.  We stood out in the class – U.S. service members are required to wear their service’s PT uniform while our coalition partners are free to dress any way they like within reason.  Having others not dressed like us isn’t a bad thing…it’s nice to see a female in something other than our ugly ill-fitting USAF nylon shorts.

But I digress.

Our warm up consisted of a few laps around the gym, hopping, skipping, jumping as we went.  A rather thin fellow in a purple shirt pulled up next to me and asks in a British accent, “Are you able to understand her?”, except it came out more like, “Air yah eeble to oonerstanner?”  Ironically, I didn’t understand him the first time and had to ask him to repeat himself.

“Well sure,” I laughed.  “she’s speaking english!”

“Newww she’s nought”, came his reply.  One of those types, eh?  I wasn’t about to debate the issue while panting so I just said, “you know what I mean” and continued on my way.

I thought I’d be smart and start the workout near the cones, on one of the half-ball things, to get the running out of the way early.  Cocky at first, I joined in the heckling of the runner from my plank position.  “Faster, run faster!”  It really wasn’t heckling as much as it was pleading.   It had crossed my mind that perhaps a class involving the use of my muscles wasn’t such a great idea…forming a plank with my feet on the ball and my elbows on the mat confirmed it.

After a turn on the next half ball for some squats and it was my turn to be the runner.  Conscious that everyone would suffer as long as I was running I ran as fast as I could.

At about the second set of cones I realized that if I kept that pace I was going to throw.  Lovely thought, that.  All eyes on me in the center of the gym emptying the contents of my stomach.  What’s the proper thing to do then?  Mop up and continue the class?  I sure didn’t want to be known as “that guy” so I slowed down a little.

And I cheated.

With Easter around the corner (and this being Good Friday) I must confess that I ran to the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 3rd, and 2nd set of cones, skipping the second trip to the 4th set of cones.  Forgive me Father, for I hath joined a fitness class because of some cute shorts with an Australian accent then skipped a trip to the distant cones.  Amen.

The airhorn was mine…yes!  I picked it up and triumphantly pressed the button – only to have the horn shoot off the can.  No one mentioned the need to hold the unsecured horn.  I wasn’t the first person to make this mistake – most everyone knew to rotate stations at the sound of “pffffft clatter clatter”. 

You big dummy! Don't overdo it!

The rest of the class went much more smoothly.  The rather fit Brit in the purple shirt cheered us on – “A fine effort by our coalition partners!”  No, I’m not going to try to write that as it sounds.  By the end of class everyone was panting, the mats were like slip & slides, and I did not ralph.  Amen to that too. 

Afterwards fit Brit demonstrated his accent to me, explaining that he talks slowly for Americans.  He did have a thick accent when he spoke native, I’ll give him that.

I’m going to stick with these hard workouts - I hear the guys doing the x-treme workout (called P90X) have dropped a lot of weight and look much better in just 3 months.  I’ll do the cross-abuse class again too, and not because of the instructor.  I’ve been in a fitness rut and these new activities are a good shock to my system.

I just can’t overdo it anymore – at work after the second class of the day I had trouble getting out of my chair, I’m so sore I walk like Fred Sanford, and I’m pissing highlighter ink.  Fortunately the x-treme pilots are taking tomorrow off to go into town.

Me, I’m sleeping.  Hallelujah!