personal records in the rain (and other nonsense)

What did the neighbors think upon seeing a few of us running down Grantham road today? We're crazy. That's what I think, in the comfort of my own home or vehicle, when judging some poor soul wearing shorts and running out in the November rain. 

Addicted.
Obsessed.
Slave.
Would it really hurt you to take a day off?

Maybe nobody else gives it nearly this much thought. Of course this lack of grace toward the fanatical exercise guild says more about my own issues (and my day job). How obvious it is when examining others.

Thirty minutes later it's still raining. Grey dusk and colder temperatures are also upon us. The crown of my head is buried into the exterior hatch of the old Subaru because my shoulders are made waste and my hands keep slipping off the bumper.

Inching down Bonny Lane at some pathetic fraction of one mile per hour, every step is a grinding effort of literal and figurative hardheadedness. Each foot placement is a gamble as to whether or not the coefficient of friction of wet shoes and macadam is sufficient to withstand the applied force.

I'm trying desperately not to fail in an effort to match the epic Car Push that occurred last week (completed by two of my proteges nonetheless). Another neighbor pulls behind me. From the corner of my eye I notice that it's Jack from down the street. Nice guy. Usually waves or says hello to the kids. So I put my head down and dig. Jack patiently waits for the Subaru to clear a few cars parked along the side of the road before pulling around us.

And so I made it, joined the Cul De Sac Car Push Club at (possible) further expense to my reputation as an upright neighbor and proper 37 year-old. At least my doctor is pleased with the top notch blood profiles.

But sprinting and car pushing in the rain is far from the end of the nonsense.

A few weeks ago my friend Matt walked down Bonny Lane with a weighted barbell sustained high over his head. I Farmer Walked two heavy dumbbells as our kids biked circles around us. There have been thousands of tuck jumps and a few Tony Little Gazelle carries on that road.

Neither is the ridiculousness limited to the outdoors. Just two days ago I noticed bloodshot eyes after doing heavy dead lifts with a lifting belt notched too tight. Breaking the blood vessels in your corneas, that can't be a good thing...

I want to tell my neighbors that we're...not as bad as it looks. I want to explain how this sprinting and car push nonsense truly happens less than once per week, and we only train three days per week. The conditioning must happen on Friday because of tight family and work schedules. Friday comes but once per week, and this is actually something that we enjoy. Yes it's miserable but also rewarding. Training day is like when a dog who sees his master move toward the door with a leash.

"Who wants to go for a walk!"

That's the rhythm your body feels when it's time. And if we don't get some decent conditioning done on Friday, we'll be set back for...  ...

'Doh...

...That sets us back in terms of recovery for a heavy lifting day. Dead lifts will suffer. And we simply can't have that.

So never mind. I will simply smile and wave and thank my kind neighbors for tolerating the crazies. And I'm thankful for the fellow obsessives (including a few of those very neighbors) who join me, follow me, lead me.

And that's why you see us sprinting and pushing the car on a wet dreary Friday.