Why Are You Stopping!

“WHY ARE YOU STOPPING” Nancy bellowed.

I had just finished my fourth sprint to the top of the hill in the park. At my age, and under my current state of fitness, I considered it quite a feat. Nancy didn’t agree.

She wanted more. So I sucked in some air and chased to catch up with the other ladies who were making their fifth round.

I had met Nancy three weeks previously when I walked into her studio to sign up for Fitness Boot Camp.

When I pulled up outside Nancy's gym, I had expected to walk into a typical fitness center. I had anticipated rows of treadmills and stair machines. I had assumed there would be plenty of scary machines, gadgets and gizmos.

Instead I found an empty room. A handful of punching bags stood in a row against the far wall. I noticed a pile of five pound dumb bells in the corner. A jumble of jump ropes and resistance bands hung from a hook.

Where was all the fancy work out gear? I wondered.

I walked up to Nancy and introduced myself. “Before I take your money,” she said, “you’ll need to do a trial class. Cause I don’t do refunds.”

Nancy had the confidence of a woman my age, but she looked fifteen years younger. Her long, dark hair was tied back in a pony tail. She was tan and trim. She was wearing a cute pink tank top and powder blue sweat pants. She had muscles. Even though she was only five feet four inches tall, I knew she could probably bench press me over her head and snap me in half.

I must have passed Nancy’s test because at the end of the trial class, she accepted my check. Two days later, Boot Camp kicked off – literally – when Nancy turned the music up to eleven.

“Jumping jacks. Go!” She shouted.

I looked around. I hadn’t done jumping jacks since high school PE. Thirty other ladies, ranging in age from twenty five to sixty, had already started the routine.

Nancy noticed my hesitancy. I smiled and gave her my “I don’t know what I am doing look.”

“Get moving!” she barked. I got moving.

For the next hour, Nancy pushed and prodded me through a serious of old fashioned calisthenics set to a hip hop beat.

Pushups.

Planks.

Crunches.

Running.

Repeat.

By the time Nancy finished, I felt like I had been in a bar fight. And lost.

Two days later I was back. The second session was twice as hard. I was twice as sore. I kept coming back for more.

Boot Camp lasted four weeks. We met four days each week, mostly in the studio. Sometimes Nancy led us outside to work out in the parking lot. Once we met at a local college and ran on their track. Another time we exercised in the park, using the benches and slides as our equipment.

Each session was different from the other. Except for one thing. Nancy.

“I’m too old to do this.” I’d say.

“You’re the same age as me. Move it!” She had no mercy.

Nancy didn’t accept excuses. Nancy didn't understand the meaning of "I can't." Nancy was exactly what I needed.

Left to my own decisions, I might be able talk myself into doing a couple of weak crunches or a handful of half hearted push ups. But I knew that as soon as I felt a twinge in my muscles or my breathing got heavy, I’d stop.

But Nancy didn't let me stop. "You can do this." She'd sometimes call.

More often she'd lay it on the line "Stop complaining. Get working."

Every week Nancy demanded more. Every week, I gave more. The more I gave, the more she wanted. The more she wanted, the more I gave. Nancy was the perfect drill sergeant. That’s why I kept coming back week after week.

“Hold it. Hold it Hold it.” Nancy was calling. Four weeks had passed since the first class. We had arrived at the last.

Nancy had already sent us on a run through the parking lot carrying ten pound medicine balls on our shoulders. Now she was pressing us through a series of push ups and planks. She had ordered us to hold the plank.

I obeyed.

Four weeks ago, I couldn’t hold a plank for ten seconds. Now we were coming up on the one minute mark and I was holding steady. Four weeks ago, I had a million excuses not to do it. Now I wasn’t taking any excuses either.