There is an intrinsic brand of over-ambitious packing that invariably occurs on the eve of any major work trip. Running shoes, gym kits, swimming trunks, and sometimes even a canoe manage to find their way into the suitcase, driven by a sudden, fleeting surge of optimism. Days later, as the traveler prepares to make the journey home again, they usually spot among the chaos—amidst the wriggle of worn hosiery and now-crumpled shirts—their completely untouched sports kit. It sits right there, tucked away in one corner of a Rimowa suitcase, slumbering with all the intent of a hibernating dormouse. But things inevitably switch up on certain excursions, turning good intentions into sudden, grueling reality.
This week, a delegation from Monocle found itself on assignment in the United Arab Emirates for the Livex Liveability & Investment exhibition event in Abu Dhabi. Amidst the busy schedule of panels, networking, and urbanism discussions, Thursday afternoon took an entirely unexpected turn. I found myself performing some profoundly unusual, gravity-defying maneuvers in front of my Monocle Radio colleague, Tom Webb. We had both ventured, for the very first time in our lives, into a reformer Pilates class. And let it be known that if my buttocks could speak at this very moment, they would be crying out to passersby on the street with a desperate plea: "Help me! This man just hurt me!"
My downfall began innocently enough earlier in the week, when another colleague started rhapsodising about the profound physical thrill of getting "reformed" at her favorite Abu Dhabi exercise spot, a well-known wellness establishment called Bodytree. Her name is Ailish—she is blonde, Irish, and possessed of a persuasive charm that should perhaps come with a government warning. I reveal her identity here because this woman is fundamentally dangerous. If she approaches you with an enthusiastic pitch about wellness or physical conditioning on a work trip, the wisest course of action is to quietly and immediately back away.
Ailish successfully convinced both Tom and me—while we were comfortably enjoying cocktails, no less—that we should join her for what she guaranteed would be a thoroughly "fun" workout session. But then, precisely an hour before our scheduled fitness rendezvous, "something" conveniently came up. She vanished. Tom and I would be entirely on our own. Now, while Tom would also be stepping into the studio as a complete newbie, he held one massive, insurmountable advantage over me: raw youthfulness. He notches up barely 50 per cent of my time on this planet, a demographic reality that quickly became painfully apparent as the session progressed.
Our instructor turned out to be a genuinely nice gentleman named Carlos, while the rest of the class was made up of remarkably composed women who looked as though they could easily belong in the touring cast of Cats. Carlos announced to these lithe, experienced ladies that there were two absolute first-timers in their presence, and I distinctly heard at least one seasoned participant emit a sharp gasp. It was immediately clear that we were entirely out of our depth and in for a grueling afternoon.
For anyone entirely unaware of the mechanics of reformer Pilates, the apparatus itself is a psychological and physical challenge. You spend the duration of the class lying on, kneeling on, or intricately interwoven with a specialized moving bed adorned with sliding platforms, adjustable leather straps, heavy resistance springs, and unforgiving metal bars. The last time I had seen anything that even remotely resembled this contraption was during a childhood school trip to a medieval castle, where the tour guide pointed out the historical torture devices specifically designed to pull the limbs from rebellious peasants. But there was simply no turning back once the session commenced.
I did my absolute best to follow Carlos’s precise instructions over the next punishing 50 minutes, though there were several distinct moments when my total lack of physical co-ordination and spatial awareness must have pushed him to the absolute edge of his patience. "Arch your back as though you were lying on a watermelon," he urged me at one point, trying to coax some form of flexibility from my rigid frame. "No, but keep your chest down!" I pondered the geometry of the situation. I am fairly certain that you would have struggled to pop even a small kumquat under my torso without a little bit of an intentional chest lift. But Carlos clearly wanted more, aiming for core engagement of epic proportions. I silently wondered to myself: would a large pomelo suffice instead?
Things were certainly not helped by the agonizing fact that Tom proved to be an absolute natural at the discipline. "Look at Tom, everyone—he’s flying like Peter Pan!" declared Carlos at one point during a particularly complex movement, radiating the unbridled delight of a classical dance master spotting a prodigy in the midst of his studio. Or, at the very least, a modern-day Wayne Sleep. "Oh, just wonderful, Tom! Magnificent form!" By that stage in the proceedings, I actively hated them both with a quiet, burning passion.
Then came yet another buttock-busting maneuver designed to push human muscle tissue to its absolute limit—a movement that could, thankfully, be slightly mitigated by holding firmly onto a nearby metal bar for dear life. Just as I reached out desperately for this appealing, stable aid, Carlos materialized directly in front of me with uncanny speed. "Give me your hand," he commanded rather firmly. And so, for the next excruciating minute, as my face and cheeks burned like barbecuing spatchcocked chickens on an open flame, I was forced to impersonate a cooperative ballroom dance partner, smiling rigidly through clenched teeth while my core dissolved into jelly.
When the ordeal was finally over and we were released from our metal-and-spring bonds, Tom and I made our way unsteadily to our scheduled team dinner. Ailish was waiting there, looking, I must admit, a mite concerned about our physical state. It transpired that right after she had booked the lessons for us earlier in the week, Bodytree had messaged her a formal warning—emphasized heavily with a red chilli-pepper emoji—notifying her that this particular class might prove to be a little bit brutal for absolute novices.
Look, with the passage of time, I might eventually forgive her, Tom, and perhaps even Carlos, though my battered derriere will undoubtedly be much harder to win over. For now, my lower half has formally requested to be left entirely alone to process the trauma and think things through. It desperately needs time to regroup before I pack my Rimowa suitcase for the flight home.
