You spend a lot of time in the tunnel.
It’s the space you go to in the workout.
It’s quiet: you can’t hear the voices or the music. The only loud noise is your breathing … and your pain. Your pain is not a quiet guest.
It yells. And screams.
But you learned to ignore that weakling in your head long ago.
Way back in grammar school, playing basketball, you learned to stuff the pain down and keep going. Racing down the court on the fast break, ball barely staying in front of you, legs barely staying under you, chest heaving, players racing behind you, desperately trying to catch you before you hit the lay-up. You learned what to do with the pain. You weren’t fast then, nor were you ever big. In fact, the only thing you had going for you back then is the same thing you have going for you now—you’re ornery and you don’t give up. You don’t ever give up. If aggression and stubbornness earned medals, your chest would be full of brightly colored ribbons.
But it’s just you and the pull-up bar and your breath this morning. And the workout isn’t over. The others are done. You can tell that. There’s no more bouncing of the bumpers. They seem to be around you, but you’re really not sure. You can’t hear most of them.
3 more pull-ups. 3 more dips. Don’t think about the hang power cleans. Just get this shit done.
Quit. You suck. Why aren’t you done yet? Your stupid head again. Shut the hell up.
Hands on the bar. One. Two. You drop off.
Suddenly and inexplicably, one voice breaks through: “C’mon. I got you. Get on the bar.”
Ironically, it’s a soft voice from the biggest, baddest, baldest guy in class. You hear him. And somehow, that’s all you need.
You finish the pull-ups, and the dips. You nail the hang power cleans.
It’s over. With air, comes the walk out of the tunnel. You rejoin the rest of the class—grown adults who seem to function so much better in the real world than you do.