I have had a long held, yet chronicly resisted urge, to run around a muddy field under the command of some fella wearing army fatigues.
Today I caved in and signed myself up for a trial run of the british Military Fitness experience.
A very weird thing.
It’s like an S&M version of school PE classes but without the pleasure bit.
It started with a dose of ritual humiliation as I was directed towards the beginners bucket of red tabards and told to pick one. Not knowing anything better, I developed my own criteria and selected the first tabard that didn’t have 69 emblazoned across the front. The lucky top was – 48. A nice even, rotund sort of number.
Turned out to be an exceptionally snug little number.
I stood there trying to shield my rather trussed up physique while I watched the others scrabble through the bucket discarding rather more than the 69’er. It didn’t take me too long to realise that the darn things were sized and I’d managed to leverage myself into the smallest one in the pile. Meanwhile the other stick insects were practically drowning in voluminous cotton affairs.
Anyway it was too late to remedy the matter. If I’d tried to peel it off at this early stage my baggy t-shirt would have come with it and quite possibly the whole enell bra contraption. The embarassment would have been too great.
So off I trogged, into the muddy field, to experience, quite possibly, the worst night of my life.
We ran and ran and then dropped to our knees to attempt 80 odd press ups and burpees before running again and whining. It was horrendous and I felt sick but had to run more because the guy in the combats was a rotten mean man. Well, he probably wasn’t really rotten and mean but I did feel very sick and I am still not entirely sure whether I liked it or not. But it was an exceptionally tough work out and the other folk were jolly friendly and I seem to have signed on the dotted line and committed myself to unlimited monthly classes……
More military anxiety to follow then.