Today, I sacrificed my right shin to the Box Jump Gods. There, at 0645, in the first round of the metcon, I offered up my flesh and blood on the plywood temple. Hadn’t done that in two years, so I was overdue.
It hurt like a mofo. You know, you look down and see the scraped skin and the white indentations in your flesh, the blood just starting to rush to the surface and you think, “Hell, this one is going to be bad.”
Bad enough to take my nerve for a minute or two. Bad enough to make me focus on the throbbing and, worse, the fear of hurting myself again. I switched to step-ups for the rest of the 9 reps, and for the next 9.
But then I said F*** It. The box jump got my shin, but it wasn’t going to take my head too. If I didn’t start jumping again, the box would have a score of two: my shin and my head. And I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t spend the rest of the day with the memory of that stupid box beating me and living inside my head. My head is me. My workout (and this life) can take the rest of my body — every muscle fiber, bone fragment, and piece of sinew — but my head? That’s f***ing mine, thankyouverymuch. And nobody — NOBODY — takes my head.
So, screw you, Mr. Plywood Box. I’m not going to be scared of you. I’m not going to let you win. Just sit there, like you always do. Now, I’m going to stomp on your head some more.