My first time at Pilates without a teacher: “There is something calming about the voice of the digital trainer, like that of an early childhood educator or a cult leader” | Pilates

IIt’s a weekday afternoon and I’m in a Pilates studio on Sydney’s north shore, face contorted and limbs torn apart, staring at my impending doom. A sickeningly cheerful voice comes from a screen at the front of the room: “You got this!” I grunt in response.

If you live within 20 miles of a Lululemon, you may be familiar with the epidemic known as reformer Pilates: an exercise in which 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 assuming increasingly difficult positions in springs and straps.

But something is different about the studio I’m in. Called Pronto, it’s one of 15 branches across Australia (including three that opened in Sydney this year) and prides itself on having no instructor: instead of following a human instructor, members take a 45-minute class virtual event session with recorded demonstrations from a digital teacher. The lessons are broadcast on televisions scattered around the room; There are a total of eight reformer machines and, unlike a traditional studio, no mirrors.

It’s the only studio I know of that doesn’t have live instructors. What it lacks in personal attention, it promises to make up for with a vaguely futuristic vision of movement and a sharp drop in prices. The courses here cost between $5 and $11 on average while Human-run studios can cost anywhere from $15 to $35 per class, depending on the length and frequency of membership. Is the compromise worth it?

The last time I was on one of these machines, my entire body collapsed 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 would use if you were lying to a child about Santa Claus. That was six months ago. Now there is no teacher who can save me .If I fall, I may well find myself trapped in the reformer like a dazed cockroach.

We start very simply: with a warm-up stretch. Because I’m brave enough, I admit that I can’t touch my toes – an existential flaw that some attribute to my disproportionately long legs. “I want you to follow my voice,” says the virtual teacher. I’m listening. I’m ready. I rest my hands on my shins.

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I come to the reformer. The soundtrack instantly transitions from soft music to tropical house. I feel like I’m in an episode of Love Island or maybe a YouTube video from 2012. Unfortunately, I’m not in any of those things. I’m in pain because I’ve been doing stomach cramps for the last 10,000 millennia (30 seconds) and now I’m being told to push my pulse.

There is something reassuring about the voice of the digital teacher, like that of an early childhood educator or a cult leader. It’s almost hypnotic. I could imagine appreciating the timbre if I were five years old or someone with a weak mental constitution. Instead, I’m someone who wants defined calves – and so suddenly I’m lying on my back, my legs burning as I push my body in and out of the machine.

I know that my form is not optimal. At this point in a regular session I would be slouching and panting dramatically. “Please,” I telegraphed with my eyes. “Come and tidy up my sweaty limbs so I can continue this course without getting a hernia.” It’s my own fault here, though. “Can you lift your heels even higher?” The virtual voice literally beams. “NO!!!” I scream quietly. “That looks great!” she says without batting an eyelid. I’ll probably risk injury, but at least I’ll get a compliment. It’s a Faustian bargain that I’m happy to accept.

After thirty minutes, the relentless praise wore me down. I feel myself submitting to the digital lecturer’s unbridled cheers. “Come closer to your knees!” Yes, Master. “Wait a minute at four!” Absolutely, Your Excellency. “You got that!” Thank you, sir.

In the middle of a shoulder set, arms outstretched in excitement, I think back to each of the Pilates teachers who influenced me: the one who only played Phoebe Bridgers remixes; the one who repeatedly misused the word “tasty” to mean “torturing”; The one I saw at a party but didn’t recognize me, so we just stared at each other while opening and closing our mouths like goldfish.

These memories slowly begin to fade. All that remains are the instructions from the virtual lecturer. I took this course under the assumption that I would be able to take a break or two without supervision. But – similar to the beep test – the digital voice is the voice of God. I’m desperately trying to impress this stupid, anonymous screen.

The class ends the same way it began: with a stretch. I bend a little deeper until my legs could break like taffy. I am a broken man. But I’m also short on cash and masochistic. On the way home I book another session.