Raise Your Hands

If you’ve ever done any serious strength training or what I’ve always called “lifting” you know that after a good session you can expect some soreness. Well, last week I started lifting again. There’s a woman that I know that is a serious fitness buff to the level of competition and magazine spreads.  Upon meeting her I said to myself, “That’s what I want my body to look like’ and after a few discussions, I shared my fitness goals and in turn she wrote out a strength training program.

I began last Saturday and I quickly impressed the other “lifters” in the room with my rainbow colored MC Hammer pants, spaghetti strapped Gold’s Gym t shirt and white lifting gloves as I grunted and growled. Once I moved the really heavy weight bench I did my thing, carefully following the prescribed routine.

The next day I was admittedly a little sore, but not really too bad, although I did have to have Deb open a jar of gerkins for me. The next day I woke up feeling like I had sassed talked Ike Turner in my sleep. I was largely immobile and Deb had to help me put on my socks.

That evening after work, I was scheduled to meet some friends and former colleagues who had just flown in from London and New York. We had a beer or two and caught up when someone in the crew suggested we move to a place called the Coat of Arms which is a little English style pub. The Brits became excited that they could grab a proper pint and throw a few darts.

Our crew which was comprised of four Englishmen all grew up in a pub culture and had been playing darts since they were boys. My friend Carlos who is a big presence in every way and is the anchor man of his local dart team, plus a few other New Yorkers and myself. Speaking of my own ability, I grew up in a house that always had a dart board, and I’ve always regarded myself as a competent player. I knew I would hold my own.

After much chop busting and boasting, sides were selected and we proceeded to play. Aside from out crew there were many onlookers who were intrigued by the different accents and high level of testosterone. When my turn arrived I confidently stood at the line, ready to impress with my skill and accuracy, but alas, the mind doesn’t always control the muscles. I let my dart fly in what initially appeared to be a beautiful arc, only to lose velocity halfway through its flight and it descended faster than Evil Knevil into Snake River Canyon. The image of the Challenger tragedy also came to mind.  The dart spiraled toward the floor but not before taking a good chunk of the wooden frame of the backboard.

The concussion of laughter was spontaneous, ear splitting and continuous as my game never recovered. I overcompensated and hit the wall, and never came close to my intended target. What’s worse is that although my teammates rallied and saved the day, I could not participate in the celebration of high fives because I couldn’t lift my arms.