What better way to spend Saturday morning than strapped to a reformer machine waging war on your glutes?
Disclaimer: this is not my bum (sadly)
I took my first dynamic Pilates class on Saturday morning, and boy did it burn. I was lulled into a false sense of security by the chilled R&B soundtrack filling the air in the Mayfair TenPilates studio, but there was nothing relaxing about what was about to take place. We started by stretching our legs using the Pilates circle, as Andrew, who led the class, made his way around the room chatting to familiar faces and introducing himself to newbies like me. He asked about any injuries we had, what exercise we did aside from Pilates and checked what our goals were. I told him about my running injury and my goal to get back to pavement-pounding, and he reassured me that not only would I be back to running soon - I'd be posting significantly improved times thanks to the Pilates.
Chit-chat complete, it was time to work out. The class started with a full-on abs section, switching on and exhausting my core, obliques and transversus - every muscle needed to achieve washboard stomach status (a girl can hope). Next, we moved on to bum-toning moves. We strapped ourselves in, and went to town on our glutes. Andrew wasn’t joking when he informed the class full of grimacing victims that we would be feeling a burn deep in our muscles. The burn got more intense and felt deeper in the muscle with every new move we preformed. I have never been so desperate for someone to count down from ten to one to signal the end of our butt-clenching torment.
Buns newly steel-like we then worked on our posture, by opening up our chests and strengthening our shoulders and upper back. At this point Andrew informed us it was payback time, that we could crush his fingers between our shoulder blades as he came around the class to check our form, but we were too exhausted for any bone-crushing to take place, and Andrew had been so encouraging throughout, I couldn’t quite muster my killer instinct.
As I headed to the bus stop I could still feel a dull ache deep in my muscles that signalled I’d worked them hard. It wasn’t comfortable, but boy did it make me feel smug.
Blog one: Can I get back to running - and bikini ready?
Blog two: It's a massage, but not as I know it
Blog three: Laura vs Reformer, round one
