It started with an email from Ray. It usually does.
When Ray's excited, he types like this: "Coop…..I have an idea….we're going to do one thousand thrusters for time…." it's as if his body can't stop moving, even long enough to stop between sentences. If you've seen him compete, you know what I mean.
To some, it's just a grammatical tic – a restless leg, a drumming finger. To me, it's like a war drum, and when I hear it, I know something's coming. Somewhere, fires are lit, sabres are rattling; horses are tugging at their halters.
Oh, no. It's coming….
This, even, I can contain. I can wrap the idea up in a few layers of green-and-gold details (pick a date, schedule the booking system, think about rules and prizes and sponsors and tshirts and judges and…) and delay the irresistable anticipation for awhile.
Then this happened. A date: February 22. Early this year, I comment casually to people, as if I'm reading aloud from The Farmer's Almanac. They don't see me twitch – just a bit – when I say it. I hope.
For a few hours, I watch. I see a dozen others do the daily WOD…and static fires inside me. At 12, my hairs are standing on end….did I bring a change of clothes today?….are there any out in the truck? No, they'd be cold and wet….how bad could they be, really?…I can take cold and wet. It will toughen me up….Mario just got 8 rounds….I wonder if I need to warm up, really?….
They're doing the WOD; I'm at Defiance. I'm in the second round of Fran, waiting for my partner to finish his pullups. I'm on the ground, mid-Murph. I'm jumping boxes at Fight Gone Bad, trying to go as fast as Ray's ring finger punching the "." key…..
