Train The Trainer

Let me get the basics out of the way. This post is not about how to get certified to run some training courses. This is about how to deal with fear. Yeah, I am a big fan of overcoming your demons and motivational stuff like that. However, it is what I witnessed the other day at the neighborhood gym that is prompting me to write a few tips that will help the fearful learn how to deal with their gym trainer.I was visiting Rusty in his swank neighborhood. We grabbed a doughnut and were walking back when we heard someone with a loud voice, learning numbers. The voice was that of an adult but he rarely progressed to counting beyond ten. The signboard told me that it was the gym. "I am a member here." said Rusty. "You have a rigorous interview panel to deal with before they let you join." I decided to stop by for a sneak peek. It had the usual suspects. A couple of guys and gals who were a bit "over-configured" were at the treadmill. It was a classic case of battle between man and machine. From the loud squeals and creaks of the treadmill I could make out, machines were clearly losing the battle as fatso after fatso trampled the machines into submission. Presiding over his kingdom was the slave driver who had personally supervised the building of the pyramids six years ahead of schedule. He had a shaved head and was wearing a T Shirt that said Just Do It.  After looking at the way he was making everyone sweat, I wanted to add, "Ask No Questions" to that tag line. To my right was a bloke trying to catch a few winks on an oversize ball but that was hard. Clearly he was struggling to keep the ball in the same place to prevent himself from rolling over the edge. Even a horse needs to stand still when it decides to sleep and this dude was no centaur. There was a rather aggressive looking woman lying on a mat and trying to kick some imaginary monster. What had the trainer told her that made her kick so hard, I asked Rusty? Without batting an eyelid Rusty said, "Imagine you are trying to stop Strauss-Kahn from doing to you what he did to the hotel maid if the media had to be believed."Rusty whispered, "These people do not realize that before you hire a trainer, you have to train the trainer. You have to train him to know what your limits are. Else he will give you the same routine that he gives to Mr Universe. Always give the trainer a lower number than what you can. Like if you can do fifteen crunches, start groaning at seven. Then pretend to collapse at the tenth one. That will give the trainer a feeling of accomplishment when he makes you do three more to make the grand total of thirteen. And you still have the energy to do two more."It was as if the trainer had an invisible whip which he would crack from time to time to speed up whoever was trying to put the calorie burner on a slow cook. One look at his determined face and you knew that he would soon burn up enough calories to power a Transatlantic flight by a Concorde. He was running the life of about ten people and driving trauma in their lives by just a raised eyebrow or a bloodshot eye. There was a middle aged meek looking man who had been ordered to lie down on an exercise mat and try to fold himself into two. Imagine trying to fold a heavily stuffed burger into half. Hard to do? Yes, that's what the ambitious man was attempting, just to avoid displeasing the trainer. Every now and then on command, just as Mr Meek would raise his two disobedient feet together and coax them to go all the way up to his head, the layers of fat around his waistline would suddenly bloat up and assume monstrous proportions preventing his feet from circling the globe. They would return to the base like obedient homing pigeons. A few unsuccessful attempts later, the trainer lost his patience. He grabbed Mr Meek's feet mid flight and before they could back and return to base, he yanked them all the way to the top of his head. I could see the imaginary jets of lard melting away as Mr Meek resembled a folded burger.The young are easily distracted with dreams. Standing in front of the mirror in the corner of the gym was a thin lad in shorts that revealed legs thinner than celery sticks. He was wearing thick glasses and was giving himself hopeful looks as he groaned through the routine. He was here to chase his dream of discovering if he too had biceps that he could SEE for himself. Mr Celery had been given the task of developing his biceps by working with weights that resembled the rattle my three month old nephew wields in the cradle. It would be a long journey before he would discover those invisible muscles. "Gimme 10 curls!" screeched the trainer. Celery looked around for sympathy and like it always happens when you need friends, you have none. Celery groaned as he started the curl. The trainer was counting each one and I could tell, that Math had never been the slave driver's strongest subject in school. He would often get stuck on a number for a bit before he remembered the next one."... three, four, five... five... five... five... six... seven. C'mon DON'T stop. Three more to go.""I did ten" said Celery, pointing to his biceps as evidence."No you did sevunn. I know my Math dude.""You counted five three more times. So that makes it three more added to the seven and hence ten."Celery was about to be thulped into submission. We were all holding our breath waiting to call the ambulence when sense prevailed over knowledge of Math. The thin lad started to do three more bicep curls. This time he counted the three loudly before collapsing into a heap of satisfaction.Rusty and I walked back to his apartment. I finally broke the silence. "Do these guys have to pay the trainer or does he do it for free?" Rusty gave me a patronizing look and explained how this gym was the priciest one in the country and the fat blokes gasping on the treadmill were celebrities from the corporate world."I did not recognize any of them" I said."You are only used to seeing them in striped suits and starched shirts. Never in their shorts and puffing on a treadmill. That's why you didn't recognize them."I had to give him that one.