What they didn’t teach me at ‘Personal Trainer School’

Good morning (afternoon, evening) class.

Today won’t be particularly motivational or educational right here at me-dot-com. You’ll learn pretty much nothing. Nothing of any value anyway. Unless perhaps you’re considering a career as a Personal Trainer (you may want to look away now). However, you might find yourself laughing (proven to be good for the immune system), there’s a fair chance you’ll cringe and you may even think less of me (if that’s possible). If you are a prude, are easily offended, or have the capacity to feel nauseous at the drop of a hat, you may want to come back tomorrow. So too, if you’re after something deep, philosophical or potentially life-changing.

For those of you who don’t know my work history, I started working in the fitness industry in 1982, essentially as a fitness instructor, although in reality, my ‘job description’ stretched far beyond exercise prescription to making coffee for my boss, cleaning toilets and change-rooms, answering phones, selling memberships, constantly putting away gym equipment, sweeping squash courts, wiping sweat off benches, dealing with the odd ‘barfing’ episode (yep, vomit is a regular occurrence in gyms), chlorinating pools, vacuuming vast expanses of carpet, resolving the occasional altercation between meat-heads in the weight room, removing pubes from the filter of the hot tub (I did give you the option of looking away) and opening the centre daily at 5 am.

Yep, all in all, it was a pretty prestigious position that I held. And of course, on the day that I was handed the responsibility of extricating those short, curly hairs from the hot tub, I knew that I had arrived. Aaaah the glamour of it all. And for the honour of holding this lofty position, I was ‘rewarded’ with the enormous wage of ten bucks an hour.
Go me.

Oh the sheer joy of cruising around the Bayside of area (of Melbourne) in the early 80’s in my fifteen year-old orange station wagon (my ‘company’ car) – complete with dents in virtually every rusted panel, an overpowering stench of chemicals (from my numerous trips to collect chlorine) and the steering which pulled horribly to the left. I had indeed arrived. I was the poster-boy for success.
Or not.
Fortunately for me, a few years later I was provided with an opportunity to step out of my ‘wildly successful’ existence and into some Personal Training. Sure, it was a tough decision. I started training clients full time in 1987 (in the same centre) and this allowed me the luxury of side-stepping some of my not-so-glamorous responsibilities and trading up from the aforementioned orange beast to something which almost steered in a straight line and didn’t give me headaches from the permanent chlorine smell. For a while there, I worked for myself and also for the gym, trying to combine my own PT stuff with teaching a few classes and writing some programs for gym members. However, within a short period of time I realised that it would have to be one or the other. And as attractive as cleaning toilets and polishing the cappuccino machine was for ten bucks an hour, I thought I’d chance my hand at working for myself and building my own Personal Training business.

After much planning, numerous hurdles and not a lot of support or encouragement from too many people (most people didn’t think the concept would fly), I opened my first (and Australia’s first) Personal Training centre in 1990 – no classes, no members, no memberships, no joining fees, no contracts; just appointment-only training. And while I had my challenges, the amazing experiences I had in those first few years of owning my own company and building my own brand were some of the most rewarding and hilarious moments (in hindsight) of my life. Here’s some of what ‘Personal Trainer School’ didn’t prepare me for…

Tale One
* Not long after I had opened my business, I was working on the gym floor, taking a female client through a strength session and, as always, I was busy being the ultimate fitness professional (in my mind anyway) – teaching, coaching, correcting, encouraging and being mildly amusing. It was early afternoon, so we were the only ones on the floor – I had a grand total of one employee at that stage – and he was off somewhere devouring a chicken. Or some other small farm animal. Anyway, there we were, me and the thirty-ish year-old client lifting, sculpting, sweating and chatting; happily creating the ‘new and improved’ version of her.

At this point I need to describe what she was wearing – the reason why will become apparent in a moment. Keeping in mind that this was the age of the leg-warmer, the head-band, the leotard, tights, anything fluoro and of course, an unhealthy amount of lycra, she was clad in some down-to-the-knee tights (or do I call those leggings? Who’s a bloke then?), some gym shoes, a reasonably low-cut leotard and as I was to discover, not much else. Okay, now you’re interested aren’t you?

So there she was, standing in front of the mirror doing her ‘upright rows’ with a barbell and I was observing her… form. As I do. Er, did. If you don’t know what an upright row is, it’s when the individual lifts a bar with an over-hand grip up under the chin and then back down to the waist region, all the time keeping the bar relatively close to the body. So my student was on her last rep when, on the down part of the movement (the eccentric phase for you geeks) she made three crucial mistakes: 1) she almost let the bar fall back down to her waist rather than lowering it in a controlled manner 2) she held the bar too close to her body and 3) as a result of 1 and 2, she got her thumb caught in her rather low-cut leotard as the bar was descending at a rapid rate.

The result? Considerable nudity. And much laughing. So there we were for a few memorable moments (time stood still), me and my semi-nude charge, her breast enjoying some fresh air, her thumb still caught in her top, the barbell nearly falling on the ground and me planning the best course of action; always the strategist. “I don’t remember this in the Personal Trainer manual.” I weighed up my options and thought it best that I grab the bar.

All jokes and puns aside, I was 26 years-old, pretty ‘green’, trying so hard to be the complete professional and business owner, and I nearly died of embarrassment. Me, not her! And I had nothing hanging out! I honestly didn’t know where to look or what to do as she couldn’t really put her breast back where it belonged while she was holding the bar. So in order for me to help I kind of had to get involved. Yeah, yeah, yeah… I know what you’re thinking; you’re wrong. Anyway, fortunately for me my client thought it was hilarious, wasn’t precious about it at all and ended up making me feel better about it.

Tale Two
One day in the early 90’s, I was training a new client for the first time; we’ll call him Dave. Anyway, it’s fair to say that Dave hadn’t totally grasped the concept of effective personal hygiene management. He was the most putrid human being I’ve ever encountered – and I’ve met plenty of stinkers (I’ve personally completed over 40,000 PT sessions). His stench permeated every cubic inch of the gym from the moment he arrived; it literally took my breath away. In order to survive the hour, I had to learn to breath through my nose or the side of my mouth. I’ve been around dead things that smelled better than Dave – really. Not only did he stink like something inhuman, but he came complete with two pounds of that white crap in the corner of his mouth, a thick layer of some kind weird-ass yellow-ish muck on his tongue, breath that could seriously kill a buffalo and some of those really attractive brown sweat stains on the pits of his horrible white T-shirt. I wish I was exaggerating and I wish this wasn’t for real but sadly, it’s totally true.

So there I was taking Dave through his debut session, when one of my other regular clients (a bloke) walks into the gym and very diplomatically screams across the gym floor to me, “Hey Craig, what f***ing stinks in this place; did something die in your roof?” I wanted to hide under a bench press. I was so humiliated for Dave. Sadly, there was no need. He didn’t have a clue that he was the source of the stink or the reason for the discussion! How on earth does that happen? There’s a research project right there.

Fortunately for me and my clients, Dave never turned up for his second session. However, before he wandered off into the smelly sunset, he left me with a little ‘gift’ which will be forever burned into my memory. I was teaching him how to perform some regulation dumbbell curls and stupidly, I chose to stand in front of him as he did his reps. Halfway through his set, Dave (by this stage grunting and puffing) let fly with a size-able globule (a word) of slag (spit) just as I was saying something to him. You don’t wanna know, but I’m gonna tell you anyway. Why should I suffer alone? Yer gotta talk about it to heal right?

It all happened in a split second. The slag left his filthy, horrible, bacteria-filled mouth and flew in a perfect arc to land right in the middle of my tongue as my mouth was open, mid-sentence. I very nearly barfed. Honestly. I walked away from him (wanted to run) without speaking and went into the bathroom and scrubbed my tongue with my toothbrush. I wanted to cut it off.

I still have nightmares. They never warned me about the ‘Daves‘ of this world at Personal Trainer School.

As with most careers, I guess the real education takes place once you actually start the job. Apart from learning all the expected on-the-job ‘normal’ stuff, the last twenty years has provided me with some of the most rewarding, interesting, enjoyable, unpleasant, unbelievable, disgusting and hilarious experiences and lessons.

Before I go, here’s a brief snapshot of a few more of my experiences that Personal Trainer school didn’t prepare me for:

* The countless amount of testicles that make public appearances out the side of running shorts while middle-aged men stretch. Fifty year-old nuts.. no good. Running shorts.. no good either.

* My client who graciously organised for ‘Miss Nude Australia’ (yep, there’s a competition)to ‘visit’ me and my shocked clients in the gym for my 30th birthday – 9am on a Monday (full gym). And, the client who organised it was a female! When I told our visitor not to strip, I had to assure her that she would still be paid.

* The inordinate amount of people who fart on the leg press. Men usually laugh. Women die. I usually gag.

* The two people that I trained who were murdered (both shot) while still clients of mine. Scary. And very sad.

* The sheer volume of tears. I have been cried on at least once a day (on average) for the last two decades. Good thing I’m waterproof. Changing a body can be a pretty emotional experience.

* The excuses. I have heard more excuses from more people than you could ever imagine. Some of them are brilliantly creative. Complete crap, but creative.

Well there it is; a little bit of my work history. I trust that you didn’t find it too offensive. Feel free to share a work story that your ‘ job training’ didn’t prepare you for (keep it under a million words… and clean). Or just say hi. You know the drill.

See ya.