BodyPump

BodyPump is an off putting name for a fitness class. Surely BodySuck would have more appeal to Wine Goose and her ilk. This body does indeed look like a pump has been inserted and sufficient air pumped in via the navel to add a wheel to the midriff. Is the class intended to accentuate this look? Surely not. Research reveals that "the workout challenges all your major muscle groups by using the best weight-room exercises like squats, presses, lifts and curls. Great music, awesome instructors and your choice of weight inspire you to get the results you came for – and fast!" Sounds like just my kind of thing.

During my years in the wilderness, by which I mean the years during which I never did anything without a child or two in tow, I regularly fantasised about going to a fitness class. Now that I have a few free mornings each week I do my best to avoid going to a fitness class. Today I have run out of excuses, so there is no alternative but to resurrect my aerobics gear and pump my body. Forcing a bit of enthusiasm, I jump in the car and immediately get stuck in traffic. The temptation to turn back is almost unbearable but I carry on, then circle the car park in the vain hope of not finding a space. All this procrastination means that I arrive late and have to rush into the class. Showing up red-faced, puffing and panting before I've even challenged one muscle group is not the ideal start. The 'studio' in which the class is to take place is full to capacity with toned bodies in designer workout gear. That is no surprise, but what on earth are they doing? Zigzagging from corner to corner they each gather a strange array of poles, weights, clips, steps, risers and mats, which they then assemble into those barbells that you see weightlifters at the Olympics struggle to raise above their thighs, grunting and groaning in the process. I gamely join in the frenzy, but despite my recent years doing jigsaw puzzles the task is too much and I have to ask the awesome instructor's help.

The instructor is a man, so there's a lot more prancing and giggling than would be considered correct from this group of ladies. His name is vaguely foreign sounding, something like Antonio or Marco. His accent is not country specific, but rather an artificial antipodean mid-Atlantic cross. His body has been pumped in all the right places - small pockets of air inserted into biceps, triceps and quads to give a beefy, sculpted finish. Add 2 pints of beer and I'll bet he transforms into Anto or Mark from de nort side.

"This your first class?" he asks, just loud enough for everyone to hear. I turn redder and stammer a reply. Because I have arrived late all the prime places at the back of the room have been taken but I refuse point blank to stand at the front of this crowd, so instead shoehorn myself into a gap right at the entrance to the store-room. While my equipment is being assembled by instructoro I use the opportunity to take a better look around the room. Horror or horrors, I spot the glamorous blonde mother of four from across the road. "Hi there" she waves, before returning to checking her make-up in the mirror. Swivelling my head ever so slightly I encounter another familiar face, and another, and another. Something about their body language tells me this is not their first time. That's fine. We all have to start somewhere and I've moved on from the stage in my life where losing 2 lbs is going to make all the difference.

On to the warm up and it goes like this: "First we adopt the set position of standing upright with great posture, heels under hips with the toes turned out slightly. The tummy is held in tight, the chest is proud with the shoulders down and back and knees are soft… Then we do shortened versions of each of the main exercises to follow, warming up all the major muscle groups and preparing the body for the workout ahead." So far so good. Instructoro then suggests doubling our weights for targeting the next muscle group. I do, and almost collapse 'whilst adopting the start position.' After about fifteen minutes it becomes less of a workout and more of a clock watching exercise. One excruciating hour later we are released. I all but fall out of the room, carefully avoid the chatter in the changing room, as speech is temporarily beyond me, shower and head for the restaurant, where I fully intend to reward myself with coffee and cake. There is a staircase to be negotiated and as soon as I lift my right foot I just know the class has had the desired effect. I alternatively drift and float until I arrive at the bottom, mercifully still in the upright position. Then, tummy tight and chest proud I deny myself that cake, march past the latte sipping ladies, and collapse into my car.

Tonight I will get my reward. The best wine match for chocolate? Port of course, or impress with the lesser known Banyuls, a red wine made of Grenache in the Languedoc Roussillon region of Southwest France.