Angella Johnson: VIEW FROM A BROAD
I had always considered exercise to be way overrated. Not for me the panting ache of pushing my body to the maximum, or the orgasmic high of an endorphin rush. At least that was before I bought into South Africans’ fitness obsession and started working out like a lunatic.
So it was with a light heart that I greeted the news, from a fellow aerobics junkie, that auditions were being held for people to take part in the Gladiators television series to be aired on SABC3 next year.
For the uninitiated, Gladiators is a popular British game show (actually, it originated in the United States but matured after crossing the Atlantic) where sporting contestants pit themselves against serious “power athletes” in a series of energy- sapping exercises.
The South African version, I decided, would be an excellent opportunity to test my athletic prowess after several months of gruelling sessions with my Russian personal trainer.
But my enthusiasm evaporated when I walked into the Department of Physical Education of Wits University for the try-outs to find a classroom heaving with testosterone and a whiff of steroids.
Some 40-odd muscle-bulging bodies – chosen from more than 1 000 applicants – were anxiously awaiting a chance to shimmy up ropes, prance along balance beams, fling themselves off a 10m high climbing frame, then run themselves ragged around a track. And that’s just the half of it.
Keith Shaw, executive producer and rights holder in South Africa, warned us against overdoing it. (Not a problem for me.)
“It’s not the world wrestling championships,” Shaw told us. “Enjoy the day and don’t hurt yourselves. We know exactly what we’re looking for.”
What the show needed was good looks, height and a sparkling personality. These attributes were as important as physical prowess. Which frankly ruled out more than three-quarters of my fellow trialists.
“There are some very scary looking people here,” complained my female photographer with a shaky smile.
Yeah, especially a couple of young women whose neck size matched their waist measurements!
I was particularly fascinated by some of them who appeared to have shaved (and I’m talking chins here) that morning. Even their voices had a baritone quality.
Maybe someone up there wanted to punish me for my unkind thoughts, because, guess what, I ended up competing against a he-woman with a DDD bust (which clearly had not grown up with her) in an event called Power Ball.
She had to prevent me dumping some bright beach balls into baskets at either end of a hall, and then I had to stop her.
It was a hopelessly unequal match. Wonder Boobs (they nestled rigidly and menacingly in a bright red spandex halter top) just brushed me off like a speck of dandruff.
That was only the beginning of my humiliation.
I failed to complete the 800m race because my bosom was having a painful race of its own. I also dropped out of the “seal run” – dragging my body across a field by walking on my hands like a seal.
Gigi Schermoly, a wiry redhead from Fairland, Johannesburg, was no quitter. She rubbed her toes raw dragging her feet some 50m along the grass and could not put shoes on for four days.
In other events Schermoly, the world number eight in the pairs sports aerobics with partner Sergio Capellino (who just happens to be a tall, gorgeous gladiator called Spider), was short on strength. But she pranced on the balance beam as if it were the width of a boulevard.
I too had good balance. But as my score sheet later showed, I lacked the ability to do more than 13 parades on the beam during my two minute time limit.
I started to feel demoralisingly unfit next to these super- conditioned beings.
Take personal trainer Joanne Parnell, who came with an impressive curriculum vitae. A sturdy-looking lady, her titles include: reigning Miss Fitness SA, three times national Power Lifter champion, Miss Summertime 1997, Miss Coppertone SA and third place in Miss Bikini (Rand).
Now she wants to be a gladiator. “It’s something I’ve dreamed of all my life.” (Funny as it only started here last year, but maybe she thought this was another pageant.)
Just when I had sized everyone up to be all brawn and minimal brain power, in stepped Anne Biccard, a former firefighter turned general practitioner and psychologist.
“This is certainly not a career option, but I would love to be a gladiator or a contestant,” she said. “Just for the fun of it. I just love competitive sports.”
What did she think about the really dodgy-looking people with inflated biceps and leg muscles?
“I hope they get weeded out. The whole idea is that this should be a very clean family show. But they must have some kind of drug testing. You can’t just discriminate because someone looks too muscular.”
The TV series, described as a kind of one-on-one combat where male and female gladiators act as an obstacle to stop the competitors from achieving their goals, has been going for seven years in the United Kingdom.
Hugely populist, the TV programme has turned the regular participants with monickers like Wolf and Storm into household names; some even need bodyguards to stop people “testing” them out on the streets.
Arnold Dlamini, packed into a pale blue lycra bodysuit, was hoping for similar stardom. He was among a handful of blacks taking part, a turnout that disappointed the organisers.
Dlamini, an unemployed clothing salesman, works out four times a week at the National Union of Mineworkers gym in Yeoville.
“I’m a great sports fan, and I wanted to do this because it seems a very exciting life,” he explained.
Three of the country’s first gladiators – Jackal, Shaka (I guess he must be the black one) and Spider – were on hand to provide encouragement.
Clad in figure hugging lycra, which revealed their impressive buns, they were the standard to match.
“You’ve gotta be quick, fast, look good and work well with the camera,” advised the Jackal, actor and computer software consultant Dave Riley.
He also showed me the best way to climb a rope suspended from the gym’s ceiling.
“Use your legs for support and pull with your hands,” he said.
I tried, but could only manage to dangle from a knot at the end of the rope like the remaining piece of a broken baby mobile.
There were other failures throughout the day, but I shall spare my blushes. Instead, let me share the only good thing written on my score sheet. My sit- ups (38 in two minutes compared with the 122 from Parnell) earned the comment: “Not very strong abdominal, but she fought hard to the end.”
At last a sense of personal triumph. Not that I think it was worth the suffering. By the end of the five-hour trial I could hardly move my body. It felt as if I had cryptonite poisoning. Every muscle in my body groaned with pain as I hobbled back to my office.
I woke up the following morning with a searing pain in my jaw and neck that lingered for days. Actually, my “abs” still ache – if only I had faked one of those sick notes from my mother that used to get me out of physical education classes at school.