Ruth Walker’s bodybuilding diary

OH JODIE. What have you done to me? Who could have predicted that one idle observation could result in such an obsession? Ms Marsh, good-time girl turned Mrs Muscle, this is all your fault. You and Fit Guy, alias Will Sturgeon, my personal trainer, who during one routine session randomly suggested I might like to try bodybuilding.

Well, how hard could it be?

What followed was a six-week challenge in which I pushed my body to its limits, learned to love a protein shake and began using phrases like “l-glutamine delivery system” and “does that contain creatine?” in polite conversation. I lifted weights that had previously made me weep just to look at them, I grunted and grimaced in an unladylike fashion and, I’m embarrassed to say, I did stop to admire my developing delts in the gym mirror (only when I thought no one else was looking). Flex ... unflex ... flex ... looking good, Walker, looking good. Dear Lord, what has happened to me? Marsh has created a monster. The thing is, I rather like her.

Week one was the worst. It almost broke me – physically and mentally. “I can’t do this,” I cried, my feeble arms wobbling, 40kg of weight on a 10kg bar, commonly known as drop-set bench presses. “Yes you can,” said Sturgeon. “No I can’t,” I cried, pleadingly. “Yes you can.” It turns out he was right. Just.

But that’s the thing about body-building. To build it up, you have to break it down, muscle fibre by muscle fibre, otherwise known as catabolism; the creation of new muscle tissue is anabolism (hence anabolic steroids). Bodybuilders talk about ‘destroying’ their arms and ‘killing’ their legs. This causes hypertrophy in the muscle, an enlargement of sorts. And so my workouts became ‘pain sessions’. It’s not supposed to be easy. It’s meant to hurt (is that why we talk about someone looking ripped?).

Marsh claims she achieved her dramatic transformation in just 50 days, working out for seven hours every day. She gave up alcohol and partying and, as far as I can tell, lived on egg white omelettes and whey. All that hard work took her from 25 per cent body fat to just 10 per cent. She gained 8lb of muscle, lost 20lb of fat and won herself a place onstage, painted in gravy browning, competing in a national body-building championship.

I didn’t give anything up. I never wore a bikini and I didn’t go near the baby oil. I took a week off for a holiday, then another for Christmas, then half-heartedly picked things up again last week. I’m not exactly what you’d call dedicated to the cause. What I did do, however, was commit to one hour of physical punishment four times a week. I upped my protein intake significantly (it’s the protein that repairs the muscle broken down during exercise, adding bulk in the process). I drank a sickly sweet concoction called NOS Blast, a vasodillator that is supposed to ensure maximum delivery of oxygen and blood to the muscle, enabling me to lift to my absolute limits. It tasted horrid.

For every workout session I took four giant creatine tablets, a supplement designed to increase the levels of creatine phosphate in the bloodstream, which in turn increases the body’s ability to produce short bursts of energy. The result is tougher workouts and cell volumisation (bigger muscles). I also drank two protein shakes a day.

I should mention, at this stage, that all these things are freely available at health food shops and are commonly taken by weights junkies. They are not drugs and are completely legal and safe, assuming they’re used correctly.

So, I suppose you want to hear that things got easier in weeks two and three? That I started to notice a difference? But the honest answer is no, it didn’t. It was pure, relentless hard work. I was tired. I was fed up eating smoked salmon and cottage cheese and scrambled eggs and grilled chicken. Those four sessions were taking a huge chunk out of my week and I wanted my life back. And maybe some chocolate.

But I kept going. I’m not even sure when the turning point came. Maybe it was the moment Sturgeon turned to me and said, “Not bad – you realise you’ve just bench-pressed your own body weight?” Or, mid dumbbell chest-press, when he said, “Most men can’t lift those weights.” Or maybe it was the e-mail from a (female) colleague that read, “Your delts are looking RIPPED!”

Then, four weeks into the challenge, while on holiday, a stranger walked up to me and told me she had arm envy. And that was it. I had the bug. I liked feeling strong and toned and, perhaps surprisingly, powerfully feminine. Don’t get me wrong. My body wasn’t – and isn’t – perfect. My three-babies belly will never be a Jodie Marsh six-pack. And it’s a different adrenaline rush to the one I’m used to. Running gets the heart pumping, the sweat pouring. Weights push me to a different kind of exhaustion – the all-important muscle fatigue. Because when that happens, when I simply can’t lift or push or pull any more; that’s when I know I’ve worked out as hard as I possibly can. And it feels good (even if I walk like a crocked gorilla the next day; something, I’m told, to do with delayed onset muscle soreness).

So, what can I tell you? The challenge is all but over and, in a fairly elastic six weeks I’ve lost a mind-boggling 32.7 per cent body fat (eat my sweaty gym shorts, Jodie) and gained 5lb of lean muscle. The increase in my resting metabolic rate means I now burn an extra 112 calories a day.

I have also gone from chest-pressing a feeble 40kg to a much more impressive 60kg. My bicep curl has increased from 20kg to 30kg and my shoulder-press max weight has gone from 50kg to an incredible 80kg. When I do a tricep dip, I do it across two benches with a 20kg weight on my stomach. I feel strong, healthy and physically confident. I won’t be standing on a stage in my swimwear any time soon, but I’m wearing my calloused, weight-ravaged hands with pride. As for the rest of the stuff 2012 throws at me: bring it on.

• Will Power Personal Training (0771 434 0068, www.willpowerpersonaltraining.co.uk); Jodie Marsh: Bodybuilder is on DMAX, 24 January, 9pm