When Sweat Gets In Your Eyes

There are the workouts you specter through in advance, as shadow of who you plan to become.  The fourth week of your linear progression.  The benchmark you’ve been dreading for a month.  The heavy squat.  The time trial.

There are the workouts that come unbidden to your consideration.  The magazine article, the disaster flick training plan.  The thing your brother-in-law told you about.  The gym your friend drags you to.  (Unless it’s Woodshed, in which case you are floated magically to our door on the wings of ambition and honey.)

And then, there are the workouts that look fuzzy in your training log.  You plan to be unplanned, so here are your marching orders:
1) Pen
2) Paper
3) Barbell
4) You

5 or 1a/2a) Fuck the plan, shitcan the notebook

Grab the bar.  WAKE UP!  You will never be more alive than you are right now.  You are blaze, you are aurora, you are ten steps further down the road than the exit sign that reads “This is where you show them who the fuck you are.”

Clean it.  Drive it overhead.  Do it again, and again.  You are all that you need.  Do you get that?  That no one can fucking take that away from you?  No one ever, not for one fucking second?  Own it.  Walk over to the door.  Pull it tight.  Lock it.

Walk back to the bar.  Clean it.  Rack it.  Now squat.  6 reps every two minutes.  This is the list:
1) Set of 6
2) Rest 30 seconds.
3) Change the song.
4) Okay…30 seconds more.  Put your belt back on.

You don’t write anything down.  Only tick marks in the dust.  On the wall.  Streak soap on the laundry table.   Here is where you make your stand.

When you sweat, it will cleanse you of doubt.  In the mind’s eye, ten, fifteen years from now, you will remember the smell of a small, basement gym, and that you stood tall under a low ceiling.  You were there.  You were alive.  Goddamn, you were alive!


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