After ten months out of the gym with torn ligaments, Contributing Editor Dan Nicholl places himself in the hands of personal trainer Justin Baillie to complete a return to full fitness. Week one went as follows...

Monday: Quite excited to be heading back to gym. Miranda and Perry, my psychotic physios, have recommended Justin, who’s apparently a lovely guy; envisage a first day chatting about goals (I’m planning to look like Pierre Spies by week two), going for a gentle stroll on the treadmill, and grabbing some Kauai. So much for that. Turns out Justin is a villainous masochist, who has me on a dastardly contraption called a spinning bike within minutes of arriving. Draining, and with a saddle that leaves you with the feeling you’ve spent a night in a prison cell with a guy called Bubba, Justin keeps me there for 20 minutes, which surely contravenes the Geneva Convention. Then, cackling manically, he drags me off for a stretching session that in medieval times would have involved the use of a rack, and a series of abdominal exercises designed to replicate the sensation of having a Caesarean without anaesthetic.

Vision blurred, body reduced to a shaking mass, and with a singular loathing for my trainer, I stumble home, crawl into bed, and burst into tears.

Tuesday: And day one was tough. Justin, it would appear, can directly trace his family tree to Skeletor, Pol Pot, Saruman, Megatron, Ceausescu and Attila the Hun. My recovering ankle dictates no running, so Justin simply sets up a treadmill so that I’m effectively ascending Everest, at the walking pace usually reserved for the Olympics’ most ridiculous discipline. Then onto push-ups, which sound like welcome relief (I routinely do a dozen a day, sometimes all in one go); Justin’s evil streak means we blaze through the dozen mark and go from there, as my arms quickly attain the consistency of custard.

When I finally collapse, Justin calls the other trainers round to take pictures; I crawl off to the showers, and then drive home using my teeth, arms incapable of making it to the steering wheel.

Wednesday: Left a message for my lawyer demanding she sue Justin on my behalf for assault, battery, and inhumane treatment; she called back, laughing, to ask if she could come and watch the next session.

Arrive at gym to find Justin putting away his pet snake; not sure if the mice he had were for the serpent, or its owner. Back on the spinning bike, which was apparently first used in Guantanamo Bay, where Justin does a lot of contract work. Limp off to some ghastly machine designed to give you Natalie du Toit’s shoulders; slightly embarrassing, as Justin has to halve the weights used by the elderly gentleman who’d used the machine before. (Predictably, he announced this to the entire gym.) Several further machines later, and I stumble into the shower, throw up, and pass out in a corner, whimpering quietly.

Thursday: Wake up feeling like Robin Givens must have after her wedding night. Three days of agony, and still no sign of a six-pack; wash down the rest of last night’s pizza with a couple of cold chicken wings, and set off tentatively for day four with Satan. 20 minutes on the cross trainer proves bearable (mild nausea, slight dizziness, unabated desire to watch Justin fed slowly to crocodiles), but then it’s off for another round of abdominal exercises, which I wince through, and then a series of leg activities, apparently designed to snap my hamstrings and Achilles tendons, and send my calves into total shock. Notice Justin has ‘999’ tattooed on his shoulder, then realise I’m reading it upside down. When I get home, I phone my mum, and sob uncontrollably.

Friday: Final day of the week, and Justin’s last chance to kill me before the weekend. And doesn’t he try. Spinning bike, push-ups, abdominal torture, medicine balls, dumbbells: clearly JK Rowling had a session with Justin years ago when she was sketching the character for Lord Voldemort. I throw up again, but we’re still not finished; there’s still something called a circuit to do, which appears to be a thinly veiled form of assisted suicide. Justin grins manically as I drag myself round the requisite machines, sweat and tears merging in utter dismay. Finally, I collapse completely, and a cackling Justin departs for a weekend that will probably involve kicking cats and taking sweets from children; I resolve to Google Glenn Agliotti’s contact details, and arrange for someone to take care of Justin...

  • Justin Baillie is a personal trainer based at Constantia Virgin Active in Cape Town.

  • Follow Dan on Twitter at www.twitter.com/dannicholl.

  • Contact Dan at dan@metropolis.co.za


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