The Cynical PT: An Introduction to Emma

November 20, 2017 • Featured, Sport, UK • Views: 1327

I had a four hour nap yesterday, it was Friday afternoon and I was ‘working’ from home. Then I ate cold pizza for lunch, wore my pyjama bottoms for my management meeting on Skype and devoured the slab of chocolate brownie (my uber talented baker friend had dropped round as a congratulatory gift for having kicked off my fitness business this week) with a cuppa as an afternoon snack.

It may not sound it but I am also a qualified Personal Trainer, the owner of HiiTtoFiT, which (unsurprisingly) offers HIIT classes across Bristol. I have dreams of getting the Bristol masses HIITing and raving about HIIT as much as I do – it’s quick, effective and IT WORKS, but that’s by the by, I’m not here to babble on about the awesomeness of HIIT. Week one is complete and I’m buzzing, I really am BUT…

The Winter Struggle

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I had to get up at 5.15am yesterday to teach my 7th HIIT class of the week. Don’t get me wrong, I love it, but I don’t enjoy mornings. The class isn’t until 6.30am but I need time to come to, have a cuppa and ensure I’m not growling at anyone who walks through the door expecting a radiant PT full of the joys of spring in November.

It’s cold and dark and mostly half-raining, that kind of piffy rain that lightly sheens your just applied make up and frizzes your hair to perfection. Or, it’s cold and you sit in your car shivering waiting for the feeling to return to your hands, driving at snail’s pace once you’ve deemed it safe enough to drive despite having to crouch low and lean a little to the left to see through the fist –sized segment of de-iced windscreen.

Going It Alone

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Once this week I had to give myself a HIIT class in a room I’d paid £20 to hire, as no one turned up. That’s okay. I expected it and I’ve budgeted for it, I’m fully aware that it takes time to build a business. So I was thrilled yesterday when three lovely ladies, who I salute for getting up at stupid o’ clock and heading out into the cold on a dark November morning, walked through the doors to participate in my class.

They actually looked impressively alert for that time in the morning, but I recognised myself in them. That look that says, ‘I’m gonna hate this, it best be worth it’ and I know that look because it’s how I often feel at the beginning of a class. That inner dialogue that thinks of every possible excuse to not put your workout gear on and head out the door. The procrastination of doing every task possible until you either get annoyed enough that you have been thinking about the exercise that you will do ‘at some point’ that day for the past hour. Or you feel the guilt about the fact you haven’t exercised for three days and you ate a whole pack of Hobnobs (other biscuits are available) last night whilst watching your latest Netflix binge.

The Pain

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“Nine exercises, twice through. 45 seconds on, 10 seconds rest.” The quick thudding beat of a song plays. Pumped and fierce, you have fully committed to the moment, beads of sweat drip from the end of your nose, as you grunt and groan through half an hour of squats, lunges, burpees and feeling like a warrior ninja if you find yourself bashing out push ups to the beat of Rocky’s ‘Eye of the Tiger’! I ‘reward’ you halfway through the class with a break, “chill, grab a drink, relax for a couple of minutes”.

Halfway; you are desperate for it to finish but, also I can also see your inner Sasha Fierce, what some may call your ‘don’t fuck with me’ face. Round two commences and the burpees defeat you a little easier, there’s a pause before mustering the energy to do each jump. Faces red, British decorum dissolves and swearing whilst growling is accepted. I count down the exercises, keeping you informed of exactly how much more effort I require until you can stop. It comes, that final exercise and the determination of each and every one of you is empowering. I. Will. Not. Be. Beaten. By. The. Final. Thirty. Seconds.

The Pleasure

[Credit: http://www.therxreview.com/]

Then you’re done. Collapsed. Gulping water. Beaten by burpees. Thankful as the music changes to something soothing and you know it’s time to stretch the muscles, also known as lying down and not moving.

And with the final stretch I finish with, “and give yourself a massive round of applause”. And that’s when I see it.

You are phenomenal. You strut out of the hall, chest puffed and head held high for you are the master and you have slayed the beast. No-one, not one person, can say you have now not achieved in your day. Your body is sculpted, you can feel the muscles tightening to create firm buttocks as you strut and, my darling, you deserve to feel like the Olympic athlete that you are. Bask in your success, bask!

And that is why we exercise isn’t it? That feeling, that high. And, let’s not kid ourselves, for guilt-free pizza and chocolate brownies. You beat yourself, you beat that gleeful voice that says you can’t and proved to yourself that you can. And I salute you. But as you strut, spare a thought for those that are not yet warriors. There are many who are simply preparing for battle, doing the dishes, running errands and hovering over the Hobnobs in Asda as they make a mental note that they can only open the packet tonight if they have been to their class.

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