I’M trying to think of words, words to describe what I’ve just been through. Oh, there are none.
“Why don’t you come join us at Get Fit Boot Camp, Mairead? Why don’t you give it a go to see what it’s all about?” they said, luring me in with their easy, breezy tone.
“Oh sure, why not,” poor, innocent, stupid me agreed,
“how bad can it be?”
Twelve hours later and I’m still a shade of puce.
Firstly, it rained before the class in Carlow Rugby Club began. I don’t do rain.
Surely they will bring us indoors, I thought, surely. I mean, I could get pneumonia and die. People would be devastated if I died because of boot camp, I’m simply sure of it … (I can’t think of who exactly, but I’m sure someone would.)
So when Pat, our instructor – who henceforth shall only be known as Mr Mean – tells us to do a lap, I presume he is speaking to someone else.
He isn’t.
I look around, desperately hoping someone is going to stage a revolt.
They don’t.
I resist the urge to say: “Excuse me, excuse me, sir, I don’t do running, so I’ll just sit this one out and join in when you are all doing something which involves lying down.”
However, I decide I must rally the trooper within and, for the sake of saving some face, I half-heartedly attempt to jog along with the crowd.
It’s fair to say I was the dunce in the group: I was like the “challenged” student who gets picked last in PE class.
Mr Mean walks us around a circuit of bollards, which at a rough guess is about ten miles long, and at each bollard he tells us what sort of exercise to do.
While all the fit people are nodding along like they know what he’s talking about, I’m wondering how fast I can make a getaway without being caught. In retrospect, I actually should have been concentrating because before I know it whistles are blowing and there is talk of a pole in the middle of the circuit.
Then Mr Mean says: “Once you’ve finished each exercise, you have to run to the pole.”
And then he has the gall, the absolute gall, to say: “The last person to touch the pole does five push-ups”.
I manage to bite my tongue before I shout: “What? That is a ridiculous idea.”
As it turns out, it was not only a ridiculous idea; it added considerably to the hell.
Of course, I was falsely accused of being last to the pole at one point. And I would have argued more except I needed every last ounce of energy to breathe.
To be perfectly honest, the entire thing went in a blur. I think it was due to the lack of oxygen reaching my lungs/ brain, and they say that when you are going through a near-death experience time takes on new proportions.
Three times, three flipping times, Mr Mean made us do the circuit. Had I known, I would have had an ambulance on standby.
And I could possibly have tolerated most of the exercises if it weren’t for the utter humiliation of having to do a crab crawl thing. Basically, you ‘walk/ crawl’ between two bollards with your hands on the ground.
I had never done this before and I will never do it again. You had to do it backwards at one station and forwards at another.
I was so disorientated I kept forgetting it was coming up.
And every time I realised I was at a crab crawl station, I said the same thing, which was: “For f**k sake, not this f**king, stupid f**king thing again! F**k, f**k, f**k, f**k, f**k,” and that is putting my reaction politely.
If you’re a sadist and you fancy punishing yourself, a new Get Fit (or die trying) Boot Camp course starts on 4 October in Carlow Rugby Club. Call 086 0215039 to learn more about the hell. Oh yeah, and someone called Seán O’Brien is involved too.
I should point out that the only thing which got me through the entire debacle was the other people in the group. They happened to be lovely, especially when they shouted their support after Mr Mean made me finish the crab crawl. And yes, I will be going back to boot camp … there is not a hope in hell I’m letting Mr Mean beat me.
PS: Mr Mean is actually quite nice.