It is a weekday afternoon and I am at a pilates studio on Sydney’s north shore, face contorted and limbs asunder, staring down my impending demise. An abhorrently cheerful voice radiates from a screen at the front of the room: “You got this!” I grunt in response.
If you live anywhere within 30km of a Lululemon, you might be familiar with the epidemic known as reformer pilates: an exercise where lithe people in matching sets mount a machine halfway between a bondage device and a medieval pillory to spend the better part of an hour performing increasingly excruciating positions in springs and straps.
But something is different about the studio I am at. It is called Pronto, it is one of 15 branches across Australia (including three that opened in Sydney this year), and it prides itself on being teacher-less: instead of following a human instructor, members swipe in for a 45-minute virtual session featuring pre-recorded demonstrations by a digital teacher. The lesson is beamed from TVs dotted around the room; there are eight reformer machines all up and, unlike a traditional studio, no mirrors.
It is the only studio I have encountered to do away with live instructors. What it lacks in personalised attention it promises to make up for with a vaguely futuristic vision of exercise and a sharp price drop. Classes here average out to between $5 and $11 while human-led studios can cost anywhere from $15 to $35 a class, depending on the length and frequency of membership. Is the trade-off worth it?
Last time I was on one of these machines my entire body caved into a gap and I had to be physically rescued by the instructor. “Don’t worry! This happens so often!” she said, in the same tone you might use to lie about Santa to a child. That was six months ago. Now there is no instructor to save me. If I fall I may well be trapped in the reformer like a dazed cockroach.
We begin simply enough: with a warm-up stretch. Because I am so brave, I will admit that I cannot touch my toes – an existential failing that some have attributed to my disproportionately long legs. “I want you to follow my voice,” the virtual teacher intones. I am listening. I am poised. I am resting my hands on my shins.
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I move on to the reformer. Instantly, the soundtrack transitions from a mellow muzak to tropical house. I feel as though I am in an episode of Love Island or maybe a YouTube video circa 2012. Unfortunately I am in neither of these things. I am in pain because I have been doing stomach crunches for the past 10,000 millennia (30 seconds) and now I am being told to pulse.
There is a soothing quality to the digital instructor’s voice, like an early childhood educator or a cult leader. It is almost hypnotic. I could see myself appreciating the timbre if I was five years old or someone with a weak spiritual constitution. Instead I am a person who wants defined calves – which is how I find myself suddenly supine, legs burning as I press my body in and out from the machine.
I know my form is less than ideal. By this time in a regular session I’d be lolling and panting dramatically. “Please,” I would telegraph with my eyes. “Come and adjust my sweaty limbs so I may continue through this class without getting a hernia.” Here though, I only have myself to blame. “Can you lift your heels any higher?” the virtual voice practically beams. “No!!!” I scream silently. “That looks great!” she says, without missing a beat. I am probably risking an injury but at least I am getting a compliment. It is a Faustian bargain I am willing to take.
Thirty minutes in, and the unrelenting praise has worn me down. I can feel myself submitting to the digital instructor’s unbridled cheer. “Get closer to your knees!” Yes, master. “Hold for four!” Certainly, your excellency. “You got this!” Thank you, my liege.
Midway through a shoulder set, arms extended in exaltation, I start thinking back to each of the pilates teachers who have shaped me: the one who played only Phoebe Bridgers remixes; the one who kept misusing the word “yummy” to mean “agonising”; the one who I saw at a party but didn’t recognise me so we simply stared at each other while opening and closing our mouths like goldfish.
Slowly, these memories begin fading away. All that remains are the virtual instructor’s directives. I entered this class supposing that, without supervision, I could sneak in a break or two. But – much like the beep test – the digital voice is the voice of God. I find myself desperate to impress this stupid, anonymous screen.
The class ends the same way it opened: with a stretch. I bend a little deeper until my legs might snap like taffy. I am a broken man. But I am also cash-strapped and masochistic. On the way home, I book into another session.
