From left to right, Stephanie Moisio, Elssy Klug and Kristin Krebs power through hanging triceps dips at Cleveland Fitness Revolution boot-camp class in Beachwood.

CLEVELAND, Ohio — When a daily deal advertising 12 low-cost boot-camp workout sessions arrived in my email in box last month, I paused.

The timing was perfect. I would soon be officially closer to 40 than 30. I’d birthed two bundles of joy in the past four years, and, let’s just say, it had been a while since I had the “me” time to focus on getting back in shape.

Then there was the upcoming trip my husband and I were taking without the kids to attend a friend’s wedding in Sonoma, Calif. Two classes a week for six weeks would get me toned and strong.

If all of that wasn’tenough motivation, I didn’t know what would be.

But by my second day of boot camp at Cleveland Fitness Revolution, I had an epiphany: The dumbbells, the TRX rubber straps against the wall, the hanging ropes and every other workout device in the room were really just instruments of torture.

 That thought hit me as I leaned over two giant ropes that my already sore, dead-weight arms were supposed to pump. One end of the heavy rope was attached to the wall, and there I was holding the other end about 12 feet away, feebly trying to make rope waves. The gal next to me, unusually chatty for 5:30 a.m., glanced my way and said, “Now I really feel like I’m on ‘The Biggest Loser.’ ”

When I posted a Facebook status six weeks ago proudly proclaiming that I had signed up for early-morning boot camp, one friend responded: “Boot camp at 5:30 a.m. — huh, you are a brave woman!”

Early morning boot-camp workout at Fitness Revolution Watch participants exercise at Fitness Revolution in Beachwood, Ohio. Watch video Brave? Maybe. Determined? Definitely.

So, every Tuesday and Thursday for six weeks I hauled myself out of bed at the crack of dawn and drove to a warehouselike gym in a nondescript office complex in Beachwood. I told myself this would jump-start a long-term habit of early-morning workouts.

There were a couple of dozen of us bleary-eyed, mostly middle-aged women who started our days by having trainer and co-owner Nate Miracle — yes, his real name — lead us through a series of one-hour drills.

Miracle, whose partner Dan Bednar runs the western suburban locations, didn’t bark like a drill sergeant. On the contrary, he spoke quietly and listed each day’s drills on a white board. When he demonstrated a move, his toned body moved with ease and I found myself glancing around at the others to see if they, too, were in awe.

Indoor group boot-camp classes have escalated in popularity, according to the annual Idea Fitness Programs & Equipment Trends report. The association, which is a membership organization for fitness professionals, found that about 67 percent of its members are now offering indoor boot-camp classes, up from 28 percent seven years ago.

It turns out that Miracle isn’t really a fan of the term “boot camp.”

Lots of gyms and individual classes offer boot-camp-style workouts, and there is no set definition of what makes a boot-camp class, he said. (Ideally, it would combine cardio and calisthenics, like push-ups, squat thrusts, punches and kicks, according to the American Council on Exercise.)

But many advertised boot camps, Miracle said, aren’t run by certified instructors and focus on quick-fix weight loss instead of overall health. Cleveland Fitness is more of a lifestyle program, he said.

People sign up — like me — through special deals with a specific endpoint and become addicted to feeling good, said Miracle.

Looking back on the notes I took each week after class, I saw what he meant.

Music from the movie “Rocky” blasts on the stereo as I use my hands to hold myself in a push-up position, with my body parallel to the ground and my feet in stirrups, hovering midair. I’m supposed to pump my feet as if running on the ground.

My mind flashes to the skinned knee my 3-year-old came home with from day care the day before. When I had asked him about it, hejust shrugged and said he had been playing.

Surely, I can play just as hard. I pump with all my might.

The American Council on Exercise found in 2008 that the average exerciser burns approximately 9.8 calories per minute during a typical boot-camp workout, which equals nearly 600 calories during an hourlong class like mine.

The typical class starts with a warm-up before Miracle demonstrates the different exercises participants will do at pre-set stations. Music blasts through speakers, and we travel in small groups around the room to stop for drills — plank holds here, pop-up squats there, sand-bag lifts and the always painful burpee (a sort of push-up and jump-squat combination).

A pre-programmed voice interrupts the music occasionally to let us know how many seconds we must strain through each set. Miracle roams the room and watches. If we do a move wrong, he is there to gently correct us. If we aren’t lifting enough weight, he adds more.

Here’s my confession: I love working out, but I’ve never stuck to a group workout class long. My favorite activity is running, and my body can go for miles on muscle memory and long-established cardiovascular strength. But I’m weak, and that scares me. I need this class.

Just two weeks into boot camp and I’m chanting a new workout mantra: “.”

Perhaps that slice of pizza and beer I enjoyed before bed last night weren’t such a good idea.

I arrive two minutes late and Miracle takes one look at me before glancing down at his watch. I throw my water bottle down and start on the jumping jacks he’s demanding. My muscles can’t handle these workouts without a warm-up.

One of today’s moves is called the “Neo,” after the lead character of the action-packed movie “The Matrix.” I’m supposed to hold on to a rope while reaching backward to the floor and then up to ceiling. When done properly, you look exactly like Keanu Reeves dodging bullets. Improperly, you look like someone who is falling backward after slipping on a banana peel.

The perky, young college student next to me smiles and says, “This is my favorite.”

I respond with a smile and think, ”

At my sixth session — only three weeks before the trip to California Miracle walks over and plops another sandbag on my back.

As if the 20-pound bag I was balancing while doing a plank hold for 40 seconds wasn’t enough? He’s been watching me. He knows my strengths include my abdominal muscles, and he knows anything to do with my arms are my weakness.

Between sets, a woman looks over at me and another in our group and says she is feeling lightheaded. We sympathetically shake our heads. Shedoesn’t tell Miracle and keeps going.

She’s one of the stronger ones, with a toned body that tells me she has been a longtime exercise buff. This makes me feel better. I was lightheaded during the last session, and I entered this session so sore that, for the life of me, I can’t figure out why I didn’t pop an Advil before class.

Strange things are happening. It’s no longer difficult to get up at 5 a.m.

I can flex my abdominal muscles and them in the mirror. My arms are more toned than they ever were the past few years of rocking babies.

Even better, my back isn’t straining when I carry my 35-pound-plus 3-year-old upstairs to bed. (He can walk just fine, but sometimes, at the end of a long day, it’s nice to hold him.)

The other day, both the 3-year-old and the 1-year-old wanted to be lifted up at the same time. I carried them around the house just for the fun of it. It was, seriously, no problem.

I could get used to feeling this strong.

The faces in my class are comforting and familiar. I can read and understand the scribbles that Miracle puts on the white board, detailing our workout.

The moves no longer seem impossible, and I’ve even figured out how to remember most of them as we rotate through the drills. Today, one woman looked over at me to ask what we did next and I knew the answer.

On the mats, I reach for two 15-pound dumbbells for a combination squat and lift move and find that the weights aren’t too heavy.

Miracle comes by and nods with a smile.

Just when I was starting to feel smug about being strong, Miracle puts us through a workout that makes the back of my arms feel like they are on fire.

The circuit is long and tough today, and I’m on my next-to-final drill. Three of us have our backs to a 2-foot-tall, gray box and we are doing a classic hanging triceps dip with our feet on the ground in front of us and our hands gripping the box behind us. I’m supposed to do as many dips as possible in the next 60 seconds. I close my eyes and try not to cry from the agony. This must be what workout buffs call the burn.

I find myself praying for the programmed voice to interrupt the music andsay “half-way” and “five seconds left.”

At work the day after my last workout, I feel a bit of pain as I lift my arms to type. But it’s a good pain. It lets me know I have muscles there, and that they are indeed getting stronger.

I pause for a moment and savor my accomplishment.

Of course, if Miracle asks, I was sitting for just a moment, nothing more.


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