The torture chamber consisted of metal weights and ropes, some attached to the wall and others to the ceiling. The two torturers had about 30 “guests” to harass, who were in no condition to ignore the shouts of their tormentors. In fact, they voluntarily used the ropes and weights, and reacted to the torturers’ bellows by jumping, rolling on the floor, or flinging their arms and legs around.

And I was one of them.

Welcome to Boot Camp, a workout where 30 men and women pay to have someone make them do spider walks and dive-bomber pushups. The class, which meets at 5:30 in the morning (another form of torture), is primarily women, most of whom saw a more slender form many years ago. Our goals must be similar: we want to lose weight/get in shape/build muscles–and we need someone else to help us do it.

There is the romance writer side in taking the class too: an opportunity to watch two truly ripped guys show us less athletically inclined individuals the path to thin and toned. My romantic suspense protagonists are like most romance novels’ main characters: psychologically or historically flawed, but not physically. So I can’t help but wonder, how do people get that athletic build?

After a week of this physically demanding class, I’ve determined they aren’t getting fit through the running we writers often have our characters do. There is no running in this class. Unless you count the semblance of a run for a water bottle after 15 minutes of torture stations.

And weights don’t make our heroes and heroines sexy. Sure, my class used a weight during our last session. We looked like shot-putters who couldn’t get the shot over the shoulder. I was certainly capable of throwing mine, if only because the sweat running off my body was all over my palms. Not quite the racy scene authors usually describe.

(A side note: How would anyone think sweat dripping between a woman’s breasts is sexy? Kill that response by smelling her. Eww!)

Then there are the ropes. Don’t get excited, folks. One set hung from the ceiling, which might have potential, but it involved pulling the ropes from a squat with arm curls. These weren’t particularly difficult, as I was too uncoordinated to manage moving that many muscles at one time, so I faked it. The other ropes were Terminator-thick jump ropes, which we were supposed to keep moving up and down till our arms resembled the ropes in flexibility. Or they fell off (arms, not ropes).

At this point I’m still wondering how cops who never get any sleep because of the latest investigation, or shape-shifting griffins being chased by the entire evil underworld, or dukes without access to a Gold’s Gym, manage to keep their trim shapes. The answer might be found in the next five weeks of workouts. We’ll see.

My husband thinks I’m crazy, first for getting up at 5 a.m., and second, for paying someone to lead me in this torture. But I pointed out he should be looking forward to the potential of “abs of steel” when my “flabs of meals” are all nicely toned.

Any readers or writers out there who try to live the lives of their heroes or heroines? Or are you living vicariously through the books you read and write, prepared to forego the experience for various safety reasons, such as killing your instructor, needing sleep, or wanting to use your muscles on a daily basis?