Yesterday was a pretty ouchie one. Even though those 135# deadlifts (THIRTY OF THEM!) weren’t too terribly awful, they still made my butt really, really sore. I’m sure the guys at the tire store were wondering what the hell was wrong with me when I hobbled in.
Yeah, I finally got new tires. They were sorely needed–my left front tire had a slow leak that wasn’t so slow anymore, and while my old tires weren’t bald, exactly, they were getting rather thin on top. Driving in the rain was starting to get a little nerve-wracking. I hate buying shoes for my car even more than I hate buying shoes for myself, and that is a lot of hate. But it beats the alternative of sliding off the road in spectacular fashion and dying in a fiery explosion when I hit a tree. I’ll be back at work and getting a regular paycheck again in less than two weeks, so it’s okay.
So I went into last night’s WOD with my butt having been soundly kicked, only to find out I was going to be kicked all over, mostly in the lung parts.
- 20 situps
- 10 burpees
- 10 pullups’
- 20 KB swings
Four rounds. Three minutes’ rest. Three rounds. Two minutes’ rest. Two rounds. One minutes’ rest. One round for good measure.
If you’re counting, and I most definitely was, that is ten rounds. Two hundred situps and swings. One hundred burpees and pullups.
I’ve done a hundred burpees in a WOD before. When we did our Memorial Day Murph, about 70-some people showed up, and we only have space for about half that on our pullup stations. So those of us who sucked at pullups subbed another movement. I chose burpees. Two months later I’m still not sure I chose wisely.
The first four rounds were physically the hardest, but I think the mentally-hardest was the second round in the 2-round round (right round baby right round like a record baby right round round round). I was completely wiped, and I had one more bit of rest coming up, but I knew after that one short minute I had to keep working. Only for one round, yes, but still. That round had ten burpees, just like the other nine.
And as expected, it took for-freaking-ever. Those damn burpees dragged me down so hard. My final time was 42:20-something. When I finished, I staggered over to the rope-climb mats and collapsed in a giant heap, and Coach just LAUGHED at me. (Granted, it might have been a somewhat overly-dramatic heap, but I have a theatre degree so I feel I’m entitled to a little drama now and then.)
And I’m still being somewhat dramatic. Seriously, the WOD wasn’t that bad. Yes, it hurt, yes, I wanted to die, yes, I cursed all those evenings I spent sitting on my ass and stuffing my face with Cheez-Its and Hot Pockets, but at no point did I consider quitting. And I was super-duper proud of myself for swinging a 35# KB for every rep.
Yesterday morning, my butt was sore; this morning, my everything-else is sore. But it’s the kind of sore I can be proud of. And it’s gray and drizzly and feels more like October than the last day of July (HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HARRY POTTER!), and I’m at home with coffee and puppy and kitty and knitting and a bunch of fat-ass doves who keep trying and failing to sit on the bird feeder. It’s pretty awesome.
I’m a broke-azz mo-fo, but my life is not too shabby.