My brain totally gets the theory behind HIIT. My body? Not so much. I can barely keep up with the jog when Barry announces it's time for an 8-minute mile. Come again? I can't even run a 15-minute mile.
But I crank up the speed anyway, because I learn there's something even worse than an 8-minute mile. It's called "The Stairs," a spiral staircase outside the studio and in full view of a busy L.A. intersection that Barry makes you run up and down multiple times if you don't do as he says. Trip and fall possibility? High. Complete embarrassment possibility? Even higher.
Luckily, I make it through the cardio portion without a stair sentence. And by the time I reach the floor interval, I'm exhausted, dripping sweat, and slipping on other people's sweat. BUT, amazingly, I'm also super pumped. I'm getting a great workout, and for an early morning exercise class, the music and dim lighting really work upbeat wonders. As I walk out the door -- proud that I didn't puke or faint -- I know what's coming tomorrow: post exercise pain. But I didn't think it would be this bad �
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Pain = results, right?
Three days into Bootcamp and I can't sit on the toilet without death-gripping the walls for support. The pain is so bad that I consider buying a geriatric toilet seat cover so I can use handles to hoist myself up and down. Getting into my car involves twice as much pain (and time) as it takes to sit on the toilet. In fact, any movement that involves the use of my legs is pure torture.
Even though I whine to Brooks, I'm secretly relieved Barry's bootcamp is this painful. Here's my philosophy on pain: The more it hurts, the better it's working.
Turns out my pain theory isn't too far off the mark. According to Carol Torgan, an exercise physiologist and fellow of the American College of Sports Medicine, "Muscle discomfort is a symptom of placing stresses on muscles that make them stronger and better able to perform the task the next time." Ha! I knew it.
By day four I move from extreme pain to just plain sore, and by day five, the soreness fades to full body exhaustion. My body is slowly adapting. Which is why I don't think it will be a big problem to start working out at night instead of in the morning �
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What's the best time of day to workout?
After a week of getting up before 6 a.m., I'm ready to try a night class. I haven't minded the early morning hours, but I often experience an 11 a.m. slump -- when all I want to do is crawl under my desk and take a 30-minute nap.
I'm a little wary about switching my workout time. I've always heard how much better it is if you work out in the morning. It gets your metabolism going, boosts your energy, gives you super human strength and intelligence, blah, blah, blah. Does your workout time really make a difference? According to Barry, the answer is no. "It's just a personal preference. The important thing is that you're working out."
And with that I start attending night classes ... that is until an old hip injury gets in the way.
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Hobbling back to my Honda
Two weeks in, and I'm feeling like a Barry's Bootcamp pro. I can lift heavier weights and run an 8-minute mile with ease. When a newbie walks in, I feel an incredible sense of relief that I'm no longer in her shoes. Then, I experience my worst class ever.
It all starts when I'm squatting against a mirror. We're doing the chair sit, an exercise where you mimic sitting in a chair, minus the chair. It creates a mean burn in your thighs and legs. As we cross the minute and a half mark, my legs start shaking. Not just a little shake, more like an earthquake shake. Each second feels like a full minute. And right before the two-minute mark, I stand up in order not to collapse. Unfortunately, Barry sees me cheat. "Five more seconds," he yells as he points to me. About a dozen fellow bootcampers glare in my direction as they continue to hold the position. Please let me get through these next five seconds, I pray.
But the pain only gets worse. In the next exercise, we're asked to place our feet through giant rubber bands to work on a kickback move. As I swing my leg forward, an intense, searing pain ricochets through my right hip. I'm stuck and I don't know what to do. So I do the first thing that comes to mind: I run out of class.
As I sit on the lobby bench, I can't help but feel like the biggest loser ever -- and not in the TV show good kind of way. I'm pretty sure Barry has lost all hope for me. Maybe he'll even think I made up a hip injury to get out of Bootcamp. OK, I'm being irrational. I know this. But right now I just want to feel sorry for myself.
And as if I can't do that on my own, I watch as everyone else seems to sprint out of class to a new, shiny Mercedes or BMW. I limp back to my old, used Honda. Stupid class, stupid people, stupid hip.
But the next day, I'm back at Barry's. Is this what they mean by exercise addiction?
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Me? A masochist?
This is the crazy part of the whole Bootcamp experience -- while I dread going each time, I can't not go. I go on the weekdays, on the weekends. I go when I'm tired, and when I'm dealing with serious PMS.
I used to scoff at the idea of exercise addiction, but after speaking with Pamela Peeke, MD, spokesperson for the National chapter of the American College of Sports Medicine, and author of "Body for Life for Women," I find out that you actually can get physiologically hooked on exercise. "When you work out regularly, you're actually changing your genetic expression," she tells me. "That's how potent and powerful exercise is."
So, maybe the workout fiends in this city aren't so weird after all. And I have to admit, I'm psyched my newfound exercise habit is one that I can take pride in -- unlike my Diet Coke addiction. In fact, I can't take pride in much of my nutrition plan. If I don't work just as hard on my diet as my workout, am I just chasing my tail?
It's 6:28 a.m. when I walk into Barry's Bootcamp, a West Hollywood institution that pumps out tight, toned, A-List bodies. I'm so nervous I think I might barf.
I make my way to one of the dozen treadmills that face the back wall while other bootcampers find a stepper that faces the front. I survey the scene. These people obviously take fitness seriously. They are perfectly toned, athletic looking (read: no fake boobs here), and all wear the same uniform -- a black tank, sports bra, black capri leggings, and high performance sneakers. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realize I look like a bum by comparison; my shorts ride up with every step and my sneakers? The tread is peeling off the bottom.
Note to self: Glue gun the sneaks.
At exactly 6:30 a.m. the lights dim and the club music gets louder. Barry -- a cammo-wearing personal trainer who resembles Rambo -- starts barking instructions and everyone starts moving quickly. Really quickly. As I crank up the speed and start to take my light jog to what feels like a sprint, I ask myself, "What the hell did I sign up for and more importantly, why?"
Then I remember: It's Kim Kardashian's fault.
I'll admit it -- I'm mildly obsessed with Kimmy K. right now. Maybe it's because I can't avoid her. She's on every magazine cover, TV channel, and gossip site. And if there's one thing about Kim K. that drives the media wild, it's her body. The secret to Kim's curves, they say? Barry's Bootcamp, a torture chamber that's churned out other hot celeb bodies (think Jennifer Lopez, Britney Spears, Jessica Alba, and Katie Holmes).
So where do I come in? Despite my lack of celeb superpower DNA, I want to know if I can get the same results as the A-List elite. Is Kim K.'s body really attainable? Can I get rock-hard abs, toned arms, and a slimmer waistline in a mere 30 days? There's only one way to find out � and it starts with a measuring tape.
