{"id":280788,"date":"2025-07-21T20:10:11","date_gmt":"2025-07-21T20:10:11","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/uk\/280788\/"},"modified":"2025-07-21T20:10:11","modified_gmt":"2025-07-21T20:10:11","slug":"i-pump-iron-so-a-quick-stretch-class-would-be-easy-right-no-it-killed-me","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/uk\/280788\/","title":{"rendered":"I pump iron, so a quick stretch class would be easy, right? No, it killed me"},"content":{"rendered":"

What follows is a tale as old as time. Or as old as Greek mythology, anyway. Yes, it\u2019s our old pal hubris, excessive pride or confidence, leading to nemesis, also known as disaster, also known as a painful, inconvenient, disabling back spasm. OK, not exactly disaster, and yet, sustained in the gym on Sunday morning, the injury has not got any better at time of writing, 36 hours later. It still hurts like hell.<\/p>\n

Here\u2019s what happened. I go to the gym three times a week for about 45 minutes, almost exclusively doing weights, plus some crunches and hamstring\/glute pulses, while wearing what Sapan, my trainer and pal, and I roguishly call an \u201carse band\u201d around my shins. Often there are other classes taking place: spin or circuits, yoga or Pilates, and on a Sunday morning a gentle stretching session usually peopled by older folk, by which I mean even older than me.<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t do spin or circuits because they\u2019re full of fit hipsters who are into cardio. I don\u2019t do yoga or Pilates \u2014 although part of me knows I should \u2014 because of residual northern machismo. And I don\u2019t do the stretching because, well, I thought it was a little below my level. I didn\u2019t view the stretching class with condescension, exactly, more like \u201cwhat\u2019s the point?\u201d A bit like those old pros who laughed at Ryan Giggs doing yoga and then, when he was still performing in the Prem at 40, conceded that maybe he had a point.<\/p>\n

\u2022 How unhealthy am I for my age? The scary scan that will tell me<\/b><\/a><\/p>\n

But this Sunday I thought what the heck? I\u2019ll do the stretch class as a warm-up then get into the iron-pumping real deal afterwards. It was me, two other people about my age, plus the teacher. I was the new boy and as I fetched my mat, rubber blocks, squidgy ball and plastic band, I admit I wasn\u2019t taking things entirely seriously. My vibe was akin to the ex-pro who joins in the lads\u2019 five-a-side as a favour, then gets smashed inside the first minute.<\/p>\n

Yes indeed. Because within 60 seconds, just lying down with my head on the ball and twisting my neck one way then the other, I knew I was in all sorts of trouble. Aches and pains, creaks and cracks, twinges and tweaks, I felt my comfort zone exiting stage left, shouting, \u201cYou\u2019re on your own, mate!\u201d It was awful. My neighbours looked serene and supple. I was a sweating heap of knotted gristle, tight as a drum, anything and everything primed to snap.<\/p>\n

Which it duly did. Fifteen minutes in and struggling to extend one leg to the rear, a searing cramp really put the cramp into Crampton. Cramp sounds innocuous. The truth is, it\u2019s tears-to-the-eyes agony. Giving up all pretence of following the moves, I trundled about on a leg-roller for a while, hoping to ease the pain but instead falling off in further humiliation.<\/p>\n

\u2022 Emma Watson has a six-month driving ban. I\u2019m banned for life<\/b><\/a><\/p>\n

That\u2019s when the back spasm hit, an iron band of hurt right around the base of the spine. With my hips locked up solid, the teacher brought over a chair and manoeuvred my lower legs onto the seat while I lay on the floor, like a woman giving birth, utterly emasculated. Sapan came over: \u201cBloody hell, mate, I turn my back for a minute and you\u2019re in a wheelchair.\u201d<\/p>\n

I spent the next 20 minutes face down on a mat while Sapan went to work with his massage gun, a blatantly suggestive contraption shaped like a hand drill with a bulbous, pulsating attachment he hammered into my buttocks. Cue Frankie Howerd face.<\/p>\n

A valuable lesson learnt, albeit the hard way. I\u2019m not sure, as I survey my exercise stats, that I can count Sunday as a bona fide gym session.<\/p>\n

Why bad football brings joy<\/p>\n

A GP and Labour MP says that some people suffering from poor mental health may benefit from watching lower league football instead of being prescribed antidepressants. Simon Opher has teamed up with Dale Vince, owner of Forest Green Rovers, to offer patients tickets to games in the hope that social interaction, fresh air and communal activity may lift their mood. As Rovers have suffered two relegations in three seasons, the jokey riposte is obvious.<\/p>\n

Yet it\u2019s worth a try. As Nick Hornby notes in his football memoir Fever Pitch, real fans don\u2019t go only for the fleeting pleasure of victory but also for the healing catharsis of failure. Paradoxically, harmless misery cheers some people up.<\/p>\n

Gen Z are not my cup of tea<\/p>\n

Oh dear, Gen Z have let themselves down in the matter of liquid refreshment again, I\u2019m afraid. Following on from their liking for kombucha, kefir, kumis and other fermented concoctions, 60 per cent of youngsters admit to microwaving tea. Not just reheating a cuppa, which is bad enough, but doing the whole thing from scratch by means of radiation rather than a metal coil. As is well known, microwaving tea destroys flavour and creates dangerous random hot spots. It\u2019s a terrible idea.<\/p>\n

My children, both Gen Z, have a different tea-related means of annoying their father. Whenever I ask if anyone wants a drink, they are both sure to ask for some exotic herbal infusion just to wind me up. They know that even opening the drawer where the elderflower\/ginger\/rosehip combos are stored raises my blood pressure. Their mother plays the same game, except she asks for Earl Grey, knowing I think it\u2019s like drinking perfume. Grrr \u2026<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"What follows is a tale as old as time. Or as old as Greek mythology, anyway. Yes, it\u2019s…\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":280789,"comment_status":"","ping_status":"","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4322],"tags":[1630,105,16,15],"class_list":{"0":"post-280788","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-fitness","8":"tag-fitness","9":"tag-health","10":"tag-uk","11":"tag-united-kingdom"},"share_on_mastodon":{"url":"https:\/\/pubeurope.com\/@uk\/114893043968285087","error":""},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/uk\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/280788","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/uk\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/uk\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/uk\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/uk\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=280788"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/uk\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/280788\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/uk\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/280789"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/uk\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=280788"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/uk\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=280788"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/uk\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=280788"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}