Summer School

Exercise in futility

By Steve Lange

The class: Zumba.
Class description: Rita Hawkins, the Zumba Fitness Lead at the Rochester Athletic Club, describes Zumba as “a fusion of Latin and International music—dance themes creating a dynamic, exciting, effective fitness system.”

“Zumba is a party, and everyone loves parties,” she says. “Anyone can Zumba.“ Hawkins, though, has never seen me dance to Latin fusion in a choreographed setting. She doesn’t know that once, at a fancy wedding reception that featured oh-so-perky dance instructors with Janet Jackson headsets trying to teach everyone “The Hustle,” I was—and I am not making this up—asked to leave the dance floor.

Sunday, 3:30 pm: Class instructor Mary Lieser, who doesn’t just dance, but sings as well—she is the lead singer for Incognito—announces to the group that I am in the class as part of a magazine story I’ll be writing. Normally, I’d want to keep a low profile, but in this case it’s better that the 30 or so women in the class know that I’m here for a reason. Like if I were a secret shopper sent to Kmart to buy nylon footies and fanny packs—I’d want the other people in line to understand that this wasn’t really my choice.

A woman comes over to take a spot next to me. “I’ve never been in a class like this either,” she says. “So that way neither of us will know what we’re doing.”

3:31 p.m.: One minute into song one—the first in a long series of songs that I’ve never heard before—I realize that the Zumba instructors give few, if any, verbal instructions. Every cue is given through slight body movements and hand signals. I couldn’t do choreographed dancing when the perky headsetted instructors specifically told me when to slide and turn. I’m sure as hell not going to get it through subtle innuendo.

3:40: I feel like I’m in one of those movies in which people who don’t know each other start dancing in synch. I’m in the middle of the prom scene in Footloose, if the remake featured songs and dance moves from Shakira.

3:47: The woman who claimed to have never been in a class like this before is, compared to me, suddenly dancing like she’s MC Skat Cat to the instructor’s Paula Abdul in “Opposites Attract.”

4:01: Mary periodically points to her ear, reminding the class to listen to the music, and the song that is now on is a male singer who keeps saying “Belly dance for me!” And I do. I belly dance hard for that guy. [Edit note: I did try to find the name of the song, but you can only Google “Belly dance for me!” so many times at work before you fear the IT team will send an alert email to your boss.]

4:15: Mary yells “Everybody shimmy!” And I shimmy. I shimmy like crazy.

4:26: OK, the lack of defined instruction and the fact that, after a while, you just have to give in to the dancing, is clearly the appeal of Zumba. These things are all about sincerity, and Mary and Rita—who led a dance or two—are sincerely good at this, and sincerely get into it, and the class does, too. Even though I am clearly terrible at it, the hour session has flown by.

The aftermath: I’m winded. Also, when I see the pictures of myself later, I start sweating all over again, mostly because, somehow, even a still photo is able to capture my bad dancing.

The class: Hot Yoga.
Class description: “A demanding series of postures performed in a precise order in a heated room. This 90 minute class works the entire body, incorporating strength, balance, and flexibility.”

Sunday, 6:30 pm: I’ve heard a lot about Breathe Yoga Studios, and I don’t run with a yoga crowd. Specifically, I’ve heard a lot about Hot Yoga. Even more specifically, I’ve heard a lot about Hot Yoga with Anthony. When I was trying to come up with classes to take for this story, a coworker and her female friend giddily suggested that I take “Yoga with Hot Anthony.”

“Do you mean Hot Yoga with Anthony?”

“Either way.”

Anthony Williams, one of the instructors at Breathe Yoga Studios, says he “fell into a yoga class a few years ago and was wiped clean. During that class I just felt so much of the negativity go away. I knew this was a new direction in my life.” Two years later, Williams, a welder on weekends, is now a certified yoga instructor teaching ten or so Yoga classes (including five hot yoga) a week.

Located in a small office complex by the old Timber Lodge, Breathe Yoga—with wood floors and high ceilings—looks exactly like you would hope a yoga studio would look. The music during Hot Yoga sounds exactly like you would expect. The room, though, is much hotter than you’d imagine—the heat index is 105 or so, with 70 percent humidity. The workout much more intense.

The class is made up of 26 postures, and the repetition and simplicity of the exercises is mesmerizing. But by posture three or four (Garudasana, the “eagle pose”), my thighs are quivering. You try standing on one leg for 90 seconds. Try it right now.

Here is what I am supposed to do for posture five (Dandayamana Janushirasana, “Standing head to knee”): Stand on one leg with the other leg straight out in front of me at a 90-degree angle with my face touching the extended knee. For 90 seconds. Here’s what I’m actually doing: Standing on one leg with my other leg about four inches off the ground with both arms stuck straight out for balance (“Unorthodox flamingo with balance problems”).

By posture seven (Tuladandasana, “the balancing stick pose”), the sweat is pouring down my face and off of every inch of my body. I’m sweating more than I was after seeing the photos of me Zumba-ing.

So it goes for 90 minutes. At 105 degrees.

The aftermath: On the drive home, heading for a late dinner, I refuse to stop at a fast food restaurant. It seems sacrilegious, so I pick up Asian food to go. Because my body’s now a temple, not to be poisoned by McDonald’s. And honestly, that is how I feel after the class—the same way I’ve felt after acupuncture or deep-tissue massage: cleansed. And hungry for healthy food.

The class: Lean Mean Fighting Machine Boot Camp.
Class description: “The class incorporates ‘boot camp’ style training,” says Wes Emmert, the Fitness Director for the Rochester Athletic Club.

“I’m the guy who takes you back to high school football practice, the guy who makes you do one more rep,” says Emmert. “You’ll hate me before you leave class. They all hate me at some point.”

“You can’t mean that,” I tell him. “Who could hate you for an exercise class?”

Monday, 10:00 a.m.: Class starts.

10:18: I hate Wes Emmert.

10:19: I hate him when he tells me to lift my legs higher during our scissor kicks. I hate him when, in his drill sergeant voice, he shouts out that next number—especially 11, 16, or 21—that indicates that he expects at least five more sit-ups or push-ups or leg lifts. I especially hate him when he makes us slide large round weights along the ground before we have to pick up those weights and carry them up and down stairs over and over, skipping every other stair.

10:36: Emmert asks how I’m doing, and I instinctively say “Good to go, coach.” I’m back in two-a-day high school football practices, trying to get a glimpse of when he’s not looking so I can skip a sit-up or dog it during a set of squats.

“I’m not a domineering-dominating type personality,” Emmert tells me later. “I like to think of myself as amiable-aggressive.” And he is. But during that 60 minutes of hell—and it’ a full 60 minutes: Emmert starts the class with no fanfare and doesn’t end it a minute before it’s up—he is hateable.

Which seems like exactly what the dozen or so class regulars are looking for. “They all love being taken back to those days of competitive sports and being barely able to breathe,” he says.

The aftermath: I’m barely able to breathe. When I get home to take a shower before I go back to work, I collapse on the floor. “What’s that thing on your forehead?” asks daughter Emma, 3. “It’s just a vein,” I say. “Coach gave me that.”