Couple’s Workout at Bailey’s

Friday, 16 July 2010 12:39

Lots of activities are appropriate for couples: dinner and a movie; massage and romantic getaway; Christmas and holiday portrait. But workouts? Not so much. We put writer Cindy Taveras and her intrepid boyfriend, Chris, to the test at Bailey’s Powerhouse Gym.

By Cindy Taveras; Photos by Sean Kelly; Footnotes by Cindy's boyfriend, Chris Little.

Warm Up

I’d like to preface this by saying that Chris and I hadn’t hit the gym in longer than a year when my boss asked me to do this story. (Actually, I volunteered. I was the new girl.) So to “prepare” our bodies, Chris and I decided ⁽¹⁾ to run stadiums. And by running stadiums, I mean we ran once, and Chris threw up. ⁽²⁾ (Poor thing.)

A couple weeks later, we met with personal trainer Malcolm Buchannon, a 6-foot-2, 240-pound man with tree trunks for thighs and softball-sized biceps. “This is going to be fun,” I thought, suddenly mortified.

Setting Goals

First, Malcolm, Chris and I devised a regimen based on our medical history, body fat and goals. I wanted to tighten up, he wanted to lose weight and gain muscle. (Original, I know.)

At 5 feet, 10 inches ⁽³⁾, Chris measured in the “normal range” with 24 percent body fat. I, however, at 114 pounds and 5 feet, 4 inches, clocked in with nearly 32 pounds of fat and, therefore, considered “unhealthy” (at 28 percent). ⁽⁴⁾ If I hadn’t been motivated before, I was now. (Malcolm later told us that he thinks the bioelectrical impedance analyzer they use in the office tends to read about 5 percent high.)

What did we get into?

For the first day, our agenda (my request) consisted of legs, legs and more legs, including derrière.

I was excited. Chris was not. ⁽⁵⁾ We began with leg presses. Chris requested an additional 90 pounds be added after the initial 180. Show-off. He would come to regret that later. ⁽⁶⁾ When Malcolm said we’d be “working out” our legs, he meant, he’d be breaking them. Apparently, Chris didn’t get a good look at the size of this man’s thighs, which should have served as a forewarning. ⁽⁷⁾

In between leg presses, we did lunges with dumbbells. I should mention that there were no real rest periods. Every time we felt like giving up (which was often), Malcolm knew just what to say to coax us: “You’re both doing a great job.” “Come on, you’re almost there.”

We did hack squats, supplemented by static squats against the wall, then leg extensions, before walking upstairs (Chris had to drag himself using the hand railing), where we exercised our inner and outer thighs (on “girly” machines) ⁽⁸⁾, then finally we did weighted calf raises, with normal calf raises between sets.

Chris’ body had been reduced to a sweaty, panting, immobile mess—so much so that when we returned from Publix later that night, he collapsed from the weight of the grocery bags while walking up the stairs. Don’t get me wrong—I was hurting, but Chris had it worse, considering he overestimated his capabilities and piled on that extra weight in the beginning. ⁽⁹⁾ (To be honest, though, I could have pushed harder, and Malcolm noticed, so he proposed one last challenge.)

“Squat, touch the floor, take a step forward, squat again, touch the floor and take another step forward,” Malcolm ordered. I’d have to do four, then eight, 12, 16 and finally 20 of those.

“Are we both doing it?” I asked.

Before Malcolm could answer, Chris hissed, “That’s all you. I’m not the one who wanted to work out my ass.” Clearly, he wasn’t pleased with me for requesting to make it a legs-and-tush day. ⁽¹⁰⁾

The Day After

The following day, Chris and I were supposed to meet with Malcolm again. By then, we were both feeling the fruits (more like torture) of our labor. I called Malcolm to (shamefully) reschedule. When Chris got off work, we spent the evening massaging each other’s calves, thighs and bum. ⁽¹¹⁾ It was a sweet misery.

Day Three: Arms, Shoulders, Abs

“I don’t think I’ve ever worked out my legs that hard before,” Chris told Malcolm, making him grin. “I was walking funny all day.” But I wasn’t grinning. I was too busy dreading what was to come: upper body workouts. ⁽¹²⁾

We began with shoulder raises with dumbbells (alternating arms), then used the military press machine (that’s when I started to feel the microscopic tears slicing through my shoulder blades) and, in between, lifted a dumbbell with extended arms. Next, we did Turkish Get-ups. ⁽¹³⁾

For abs, we did three exercises, one of which consisted of sitting on a mat and twisting our upper body from side to side, without touching the floor with our feet. Initially we held medicine balls, but after Malcolm saw how pathetic we looked, struggling to maintain the correct form, he had us set them down. He wasn’t taking it easy on us; he just knew our limitations.

I’ve never worked out my upper body as hard as that day, and the following three days were testaments to that, as I could hardly lift my arms without wincing (the worst was when I’d turn the steering wheel). ⁽¹⁴⁾

In the end, Chris and I realized how much more effective our workouts had been with a personal trainer’s expertise, guidance and motivation. We—well, mostly Chris—thought that training together would compromise his workout. In other words, he assumed I’d slow him down. But that wasn’t so.

And despite Malcolm's intimidating stature, he was incredibly supportive, reassuring and encouraging. He didn’t unnecessarily shout orders like some wannabe militant. I hate that.

Chris and I learned our lesson. We won’t let a year elapse before we hit the gym again.

^1. Correction: She decided.
². We ran for 45 minutes...and I ate too much that day.
^3. And a quarter.
^4. You're the skinniest girl I know.
^5. I was thinking, "Die for picking legs."
^6. I didn't realize I should have been underperforming, like Cindy.
^7. Sorry that I wasn't checking him out like you were, honey.
^8. It felt so wrong.
^9. I didn't overestimate. I just pushed harder.
^10. In fact, I wanted to strangle her.
^11. I did most of the massaging. Nice try.
^12. Ha-ha.
^13. That was rough.
^14. The worst was when you'd squeeze my sore biceps, just to get me to wince. Jerk.

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