Chapter Six: It Ain’t Me, Babe

When I was very little, I participated in junior tackle football. I was one of the three smallest kids on the team, and I was just awful. I never blocked, and I ran the ball precisely three times in my first season. I quit after my second season but rejoined the team when I caught up with the rest of my class in size. By the end of this season, I asked the coach to stop calling plays that required me to run the ball because I was tired of getting tackled. 

In junior high, I joined the wrestling team, and I was somehow worse at that than I was at football. I never won a single match, all but one match was over within the first 30 seconds, and there would be no second season.

The next year, I joined the basketball team, and I was awful. I was the second-string point guard on the B-Team. At the conclusion of the season, I had more ejections (1) than points (0). The highlight of my time in basketball was when I ran through a moving screen and put the opposing player on his ass. Not being good at basketball was a tough pill to swallow because I love basketball, but by the time I was in high school, I knew there was no point in trying to pursue it. 

All of this is to say, when I was young, I learned that not every activity was for me. 

For good measure, here is a list of other things that I suck at:

• Drums
• First Person Shooters
• Anything That Could Be Considered Visual Art
• Spelling “Definitely” Correctly On My First Try
• Water Skiing
• Disney Trivia (Sorry Team)

Having tried my hand at running, biking, boxing, and yoga, and really enjoying each of them, I began calling myself a “devout amateur” or a “fitness dilettante.” I was willing to dabble in anything, without any commitment to any one activity. So when I got an email from a cross-fit gym near me about a free trial week, I jumped at the offer.

The first class was great. The guy who ran it was surprisingly laid back. I say “surprisingly” because my preconceived notion about cross-fit was that everyone who participates in cross-fit is either Type-A, an adrenaline junkie, or a meathead. The workout itself consisted of modified pull-ups, push-ups, and squats. It was intense, but I enjoyed it, so I opted to go to a second class two days later.

Before the second class, I met the owner of the gym. He asked me how I enjoyed my first class, to which I replied, “I liked it. It was tough, but I still enjoyed it.”

His response was, “Duh, it was tough. We wouldn’t do it if it weren’t tough.” This response drew a chorus of laughter from the members of the gym who were within earshot. He then told me that if I stuck with it, it would change my life.

It only took three sentences for me to go from thinking that I would spend my winter doing cross-fit, to realizing that this gym was a cult¹ and that I would never step foot in that building again. I enjoy being part of teams or communities, but I actively reject anything that requires me to be a follower to fit in­².

Like a dream of a canon

Is reckless that rolls

Trey Anastasio (Host Across the Potomac)

On November 17th, I arrived at a forest preserve in Elgin, Illinois, for the inaugural Big Timber Cross Country Challenge, an 8K put on by Dick Pond Athletics. It was 30 degrees, and I had no clue what I had signed up for.

I can remember being told to look before I leap when I was younger, but I can also remember thinking, “Nuts to that.” As a result, I can be recklessly impulsive, and it has worked out for me more often that not. So when I saw that there was an 8K taking place less than five miles from my apartment, I did not hesitate to sign up, and dupe a friend into doing so as well.

Before the race, the organizer explained the course to us. It would be hilly and a bit rugged, there was also a creek crossing. Finally, this was not a chip-timed race. Everyone would line up at the starting line, and funnel into a single line, more or less, for the remainder of the race.

It quickly became evident that this would be a battle of attrition. It had snowed the night before, and the paths were either icy or muddy. Runners were wiping out left and right. Less than a mile in, I was passing runners who opted to walk rather than risk biffing it. 

As I made my way through the first lap of the winding course, hurdling or vaulting over felled trees, I eventually reached a little stream that had a cinder block in the middle that acted as a stepping stone. A volunteer shouted, “Be careful on the block.” It was very unstable. Nevertheless, I made it across, unabated. I then wondered to myself if that was the creek crossing about which the organizer had warned us. A small sign on the side of the trail read, “That was not the creek.”

Less than half a mile later, I saw people climbing to the top of a hill and coming to a complete stop. Upon reaching the top myself, I understood why. The creek was about 10 meters wide, and the water was moving at a pretty good clip. I was about halfway through when I realized that the creek was much deeper than I expected (about knee-deep) and that I still had nearly 3 miles left to run, in soaking sweats and shoes. I feared that I would never feel warm again.

I finished the race without falling, rolling an ankle, or drowning, so even though my time was not as good as I had hoped, I considered the race a success. 

I apologized to my friend, who had finished minutes before me, telling him I must not have read the fine print about the river. Upon getting home, I reread the race description, only to find that the water hazard was not in the fine print — it was in the large print. 

¹ Thanks to The Lost Girls Podcast (@TheLostGirlsTX) for helping me identify a cult when I see one.

² You might be thinking, “But Tom, what about Phish?” Yes, they do have a cult following, and yes, I have spent multiple summers following them around the country. Still, I would hardly consider lyrics like “Bag it, tag it, sell it to the butcher in the store” to be scripture, and I regularly criticize that cult’s leader.