Ultrafit: A full-body rousing akin to wringing out a towel

My spine is a sail, arched out and full with wind. I stretch and strain, chin up, head held high. My muscles loosen. Vertebrae crack. I am a jellyfish in the sea.

"Drop the shoulders," instructor Christian Twigg says softly. "Relax. Push. Breathe."

I'm on a bench, downstairs in a basement studio in Uptown. Trance music murmurs from speakers on a wall. Twigg, the 34-year-old co-owner of Awaken Pilates, is by my side, initiating a session in the obscure art of Gyrokinesis.

"You are seaweed on the ocean floor," Twigg says, guiding me through a swaying motion on the bench.

Each week Twigg and his staff teach about 50 area exercisers to spiral, stretch, push, breathe and release their muscles and bones to mimic movements rarely experienced. The Gyrokinesis and Gyrotonic disciplines -- fluid, yoga-influenced workout techniques developed by a Hungarian dancer in the 1980s -- are purported to stimulate joints, strengthen the core and invigorate the spine.

Twigg, a former touring rock bassist who is one of about 2,500 certified Gyrotonic instructors in the United States, claims the discipline can arouse the soul. "Energy flows from your core," he said.

Often compared to Pilates, the Gyrotonic methodology employs specialized and strange-looking exercise equipment to guide and position participants through a series of circular and spinning moves.

Gyrokinesis, a yogalike practice of fluid, choreographed moves, is the machine-free root discipline from which Gyrotonic evolved. Combined, the stretching, straining, spine-spiraling workouts can stimulate a full-body rousing akin to wringing out a towel.

"There is something primal about the movements," said Susan Gaines, an apprentice instructor at Awaken Pilates. "You activate parts of the body not normally used."

Three-dimensional format

Nationwide, studios have taught Gyrotonic since the early 1990s, when creator Juliu Horvath began to gain a following. His company, Gyrotonic Sales Corp. of Miami Beach, sells the equipment and is the sole certifier of Gyrotonic instructors.

The technique has not caught fire the way Pilates did. But in the past four years, the number of studios worldwide has almost doubled, including 820 licensed facilities in the United States.

Minnesota has nine Gyrotonic studios and a couple of dozen instructors. Places such as Pilates House in Hopkins have offered Gyrotonic and Gyrokinesis classes for about five years. "Pilates is pretty much a two-dimensional format," said Maggie Desenberg, co-owner of Pilates House. "Gyrotonic works in three dimensions."

Desenberg said that long-time Pilates devotees who try Gyrotonic often fall in love with the experience. "It's in its infant stage," she said. "Gyrotonic is like Pilates was 10 years ago."

Today, there are nine Gyrotonic instructors and three machines at Pilates House. About 40 regulars pay up to $70 for each hourlong private session, sometimes going in for a Gyro workout multiple times per week.

In general, Gyrotonic is expensive. Equipment costs thousands of dollars. Most sessions are one-on-one affairs, a single certified instructor leading a client through the motions.

Awaken Pilates charges $45 for an introductory Gyrotonic session and then $35 to $70 per time, depending on the instructor. More affordable group Gyrokinesis classes at Awaken, which don't involve the machines, are $18 an hour.

Some serious stretchers purchase personal equipment from Gyrotonic Sales Corp. The Transformer 1500, one example, is a bench-and-pulley system that costs $395 and enables more than 60 do-it-yourself exercises.

At Lonna Mosow's Center for Mind Body Fitness in Eden Prairie, there are 200 Gyrotonic regulars, including a group of men who practice Gyrotonic to bolster golf and tennis skills. "These guys are serious about their sport, and Gyrotonic provides a unique exercise that helps with freedom of motion," said owner Mosow.

The sudden, ballistic movements in some sports -- the swing of a golf club, or the serve of a tennis ball -- require flexibility and a wide range of motion. Mosow said Gyrotonic strengthens without overtaxing muscles. "They drive the ball further, or serve stronger in tennis, but also avoid injury," she said.

Other clients at Mosow's Center look to lose weight, create a strong and supple spine, speed shoulder rehabilitation, detoxify the body or open "energy pathways" to clear their heads -- all benefits promised on Mosow's website.

"Gyrotonic is for people looking for something to take them out of the box mentally and physically," Mosow said.

'Imagine a light'

Last week, I stepped out of my fitness box to take two private Gyrotonic sessions at Awaken Pilates. Both hourlong lessons -- one led by Twigg, one by Gaines -- followed a similar structure, starting with the sit-down stretching of Gyrokinesis in front of a mirror.

Gaines, 45, is also a weight lifter and third-degree black belt in tae kwon do. She emphasized a follow-the-leader visualization approach, offering analogies, but saying little about technique as we reached high and stretched.

"I want you to imagine a light on your chest," she said, arching her back, arms limp. "Push your sternum toward the ceiling."

My back muscles slowly loosened as my bones clicked and shuffled along my spine. Gaines guided me through spiraling stanzas. My core tightened and released.

"Walk around and breathe a little," Gaines said.

The machines came next. Gaines demonstrated on the Cobra, a padded wooden bench with a pulley tower and spinning handles that look like a ship's controls. She reached forward, hands on knobs, dipping, swaying, then spinning back to sit up again.

"We're doing the same motions as before," she said. "Just moving bones."

I got on the Cobra and leaned into an initial move. As with Gyrokinesis, my spine lengthened, and my back curled and released. The machine added resistance, tightening my core. It guided my arms, and my head, neck, back and hips followed in a motion not unlike, as Twigg had put it, seaweed on the ocean floor.

"Great, keep it up, you're getting it," Gaines encouraged.

I wasn't so sure. I pushed, leaned and tried to breathe, but kept holding my breath instead. My feet slipped on the floor.

Then the motion came, a rocking, reaching, stretch-your-neck-out move, around and around, leaning on the handles. "Just moving bones," Gaines repeated.

I am a jellyfish, I thought, shutting my eyes. I am seaweed. My spine is a sail. I have no bones.

Stephen Regenold is a Twin Cities writer and author of the syndicated column www.thegearjunkie.com.