SHAPE Magazine highlights one husband's month of working out like his wife.
Check out his description of his first BURN.
Before I go to Brooklyn Bodyburn, I watch a video about the class. In it, a model climbs onto the "megaformer," a juiced-up Pilates contraption with stable platforms on both ends, and a moveable platform in the middle. Then she arranges herself into a plank and glides back and forth. It looks easy and fun.
And it was fun. Briefly.
We start simple: a plank, a lunge, some push-ups. I keep up with the off-duty fitness instructor working out next to me, which is very satisfying. But then the positions become more complex—hold my leg this way, my arm here, my hips forward, my shoulders somewhere else. I become aware of how much energy my body has, and how quickly I'm burning through it. There's no time to rest. Soon, basic instructions seem nearly impossible. "Put your arm here" sounds like "arm-wrestle this bear." And while I'm at it, I should also kick down a metal door, while also flipping over a Buick, and...
Then it happens. The thing I know is coming: I run out of gas and collapse. Just, collapse. My body, this useless and inert thing, just flops down onto megaformer like it's ready for the butcher. I look up at the clock: We're not even 10 minutes into class.
Maybe I just need some water, I think. So I roll over, set my wobbly feet on the ground, and gulp half a bottle. There. That's better. I take a deep breath, and get back onto the megaformer. The instructor tells us to lunge and hold for ten seconds. I get through two and collapse anew.
"Three!" the instructor yells. "Four!"
I lay prostrate on the megaformer, panting.
Somehow, I manage to drag my body back into position.
I fall again.
Do women tell themselves that they can always soldier on—that deep inside of them, there when they need it most, there is a limitless reservoir of energy? Men do. I always did. In movies, when someone flees the bad guy, runs out of steam, and simply awaits their fate, I always think, "If my life depended on it, I'd keep going." Now I know that's not true. I would get half a block away, then curl up and die.
I have never failed as fully at something as I failed this class.
The rest of the class is a blur. Although, I do remember the instructor continually coming over and physically moving me into whatever position the rest of the class is achieving. "We talk a lot of shit about ourselves, but we'd never say that about someone else," she announces to us all, though I suspect it's aimed at me. I appreciate the sentiment, but I want to be clear: If someone else fails this class as badly as I've done, I would definitely not talk shit about them. I'd say, "Hey, come join me over here—I'm taking a nap." Because anyone who even attempts this class is heroic. And so, as the class ends and I finally hobble out, that's what I ultimately decide: My success was staying in the building. I kept trying. I failed, but I kept trying.