I have a complicated history with cult fitness classes. When the spin craze boomed in the mid 2010s I left my first bike workout totally spent, legs like jelly — and later realised I’d torn a muscle in my thigh while trying to obey the instructor who had screamed at me to “pushhh it”. Needless to say, I never went to another.
And while I’m in awe of anyone who has become a reformer Pilates devotee — with the long, lean physique to match, and the skills to gracefully slide the carriage through the class’s flow — the £30 average price tag per session at my nearest studios meant I fast fell of the bandwagon after wobbling through a couple of sessions.
