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.
