log: pull-up

WORMDATE: L2: 556-144,152: 2-1,973: 14.8 %

Staggered home tonight. Not for any sort of fun reason. Just wore myself out at the gym. I’ve been using a jump rope. I actually call it a “skipping rope” but no one else seems to.

Anyway, after my workout, I pushed myself until I wore my legs out on with that rope. Then, instead of taking a break, I decided to see how fast I get up the hill out of the forest. One I hit the top of that hill, I was pretty wobbly. By the time I got to the top of the hill I live on, well . . .

I have not felt this fucked up by workout since I was . . . Sixteen? I think. Maybe 18.

One of my cousins in England took me to train at his boxing gym. Now, he was a pretty serious boxer, professional, but his friend was something else. That guy was up for the run at the championship in his weight class. Had some bad luck hit. A thing like boxing at that level –a thing about anything at that level– is you don’t just need to be really fucking good at boxing. You also need life to fall just the right way.

And, long and the short of it, his didn’t,

He was standing in line for a club one night when some maniac came at someone with a machete. He blocked the blow with his arm. And that ended it. Now, he was still probably a guy who could beat the living shit out of most people you’re ever likely to meet but to get to a championship? Shit needs to be just about perfect. And, after that it wasn’t. That machete wrecked his prime and it’s not a forgiving field.

Still, training with those guys was nuts. Especially for some skinny stoner. The workout just about murdered me. Then it was time for sparring. They went at it first. I stood ringside watching them pound each other senseless, knowing that I was up next and knowing I stood no chance at all. Like none. Not a fucking chance. Was I scared?


But, scared or not, I was going to get in that ring. Because, like, there’s worse things than being knocked out and, even at that tender age, I’d been knocked out for dumber shit than pride. I faced the situation with my usual fatalism. Not much I could do about it except go in and die. My cousin reassured me that his friend wasn’t going to go at me that hard. He’d find my level at work at that. So I got in the ring and just got rag-dolled.

Didn’t land a punch. Mark just knocked my blows away like nothing. Every once in a while, he’d just like bat me around like a cat playing with a mouse –just in case, I thought I was doing well, I guess, but not enough to hurt me– and some of the longest two minutes of my life came to an end. I think I lasted three rounds. Might have been two. They were both surprised that I made it past one. I am a bit of a stupid and stubborn fucker tho.

By the end, I could not even lift my hands. You ever been that tired? You can’t even lift your hands up? And how do you think my legs were doing? Anyway, we took the bus back to Brixton, and I managed to lift my hands again, to get the er, black happy into my lungs, and then headed back to my grandparent’s flat in Wandsworth. I sat down and could not move.

Like, my body just would not move.

I’m not that bad at the moment. But it’s the most fucked up I’ve been from a workout since that time. It’s okay though. I’ve been trying to teach myself to do a pull-up. I couldn’t do even a single one. Last week, I managed to do one. Tonight, I did two.

Getting to one has involved working out a lot of other things. Aside from the upper body, it’s been a lot of hanging from the bars to build the grip strength. Negative pullups seemed to have helped. And my hands are covered in blisters. But I’ve managed to do one! Two even!

So I’m pretty happy with that. Bit beat up but happy.

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