Seven years is a significant amount of time regardless of how many years you’ve racked up to this point in your life. For me, it represents over 20% of my existence on this earth. I spent some time the last few days considering how much I have changed in that span of time. A 27-year-old, working as an inside sales rep at a failing wood mill is were it started. Sam, the salesman. Since then, I’ve been promoted into five different roles with three different companies. Sam, the customer whisperer. Sam, the planner. Sam, the forecaster. I was also unemployed for a stint. Sam, the anxious wonder. I became a father almost five years ago, and again nearly three years ago. Sam, the tired. I’ve made new friends. And I’ve watched old ones move away and on with their lives. I changed cars. I changed fashion styles…who am I kidding? Is ‘sweats and holey t-shirts’ a fashion? I say yes, but some would disagree.
All that to say, my identity over the past seven years has been constantly evolving. There have been highs and lows, new challenges and old wounds reopened. There have been medications for depression and anxiety, or hospital trips for emergency surgery. I’ve learned new things about myself - what I like, don’t like, how I react to certain things, what exactly is a “good father” and am I beating the curve, am I a great husband or just a good one. Even my faith has been challenged and waivered, more than I’d like to admit. So many things about my life and my identity, have changed, as they should.
Except this one thing.
This rowdy bunch of knuckleheads who range from wildly goofy to stone-cold serious, and everywhere in between. A community of men who have different belief systems, different backgrounds, different hobbies and interests, different physical limitations, different opinions, different professions, and different personalities. But they all have a common goal - to accelerate.
This group, like my past seven years, is also constantly evolving. New faces with new nicknames blend in with the OGs. Eventually, most of these new guys get a sense of what this thing is all about. That part hasn’t really changed much. And it’s that core part of F3 that has served as an anchor of sorts for me. If the old trope is true that “you are who you hang out with”, I’m in a really good place.
So Sam, a.k.a. “Callahan”, is just another part of my identity. But it’s that part, and the group of men behind it, that has helped me through some seriously difficult times. To say a simple “thank you” would never be enough, but then again, it would. You guys don’t need “thank yous” to do the right thing. It’s just a given. Either way, I’ve been blessed to know you guys over the years and I hope I can do this thang forever. I love you guys.
Now, where was I…
Fifteen PAX made it out to the most dangerous AO in all the land - Danger Zone. Mi reloj read 0545, so we did the pledge and headed off for one-and-a-half pickle laps. At the bottom…
WARM-O-RAMA
Standard issue warm up consisting of SSH, Good mornings, Merkins (x28 evidently), Sir Fazio. Lots of chatter. Too much chatter. It made the next part that much sweeter…
THANG #1
YHC headed toward the picnic shelter, but wait, juke left! Down the stairs into the Litter Box for some three-man weave (the litter box is something I dubbed the volleyball courts at North Cary Park recently because any time a Q brings the PAX down there, they all turn into a bunch of….wusses.) The groans were plentiful. Music to thine ears.
3-man weave: Plank at one end, People’s chair at the other, runner crosses the 4 courts.
Much to my chagrin, a hearty number of PAX opted for the easy way out, running on the outskirts of the volleyball courts. One of whom even teased YHC by sarcastically calling out that his heart rate had reached 80. I can tell you, had all the PAX run in the sand, the HR’s woulda been just fine.
We did this for a handful of rounds until YHC got mad enough to quit. Before leaving the Litter Box, YHC called an old favorite - sand court BTTW Indian Run. It is what it sounds like. On the way back, we did a People’s Chair Indian Run.
THANG #2
Outta the Litter Box and down the trail to the bridge over Black Creek. Another 3-man weave, this time with Squat Jumps and Merkins on the ends and bridge sprints in between. How’s the heart rates now, jacklegs?
THANG #3
YHC is a stickler for syntax. Therefore , when a Q calls “7s”, my blood boils. Ever the purest, I usually have to bite my tongue to keep from griping about the fact that “7s” are a lazy man’s “11s”. 7s are like the word “selfie”. Because people started using the term, ol’ Merriam Webster gave into peer pressure and put it in their dictionary. Never in my life have I been able to say the word “selfie” without feeling like an utter buffoon. If you can’t relate, well, I hate to say it, but I probably think you’re a buffoon.
Glad that’s out of the way.
All this to say, waaaaaaay back in the day, we used to do this thing called Jacob’s Ladder. Also sometimes referred to as Stairway to Sevens. The idea behind the exercise is to run to a location, do 1 rep of something, run back from whence you came, then do it again, except with 2 reps, then 3, you get the idea. So over time, Jacob’s Ladder sometimes got called Sevens. More recently, Sevens turned into “7s” - the lazy, bastard step-cousin of “11s”. You oughta be ashamed, is what I’m trying to say.
Anyway…
I called a Jacob’s Ladder starting at the world famous NCP Amphitheater and ending at the top of the…waaaaait for it….stairway. Perfection. We did dips at the bottom, dips at the top. I enjoyed it. Except the part where I thought my heart might explode. That part wasn’t great.
MARY
From the top of the stairway (one could call it heaven, perhaps), the PAX were told to hightail it back to the shovelflag. Once there, we finished up with some LBCs.
COT
Count-o-rama: 15 - 9 DangerHounds, 6 fantastic felines. You know who you are.
Name-o-rama: Still 15
Announcements: this was 4 or 5 days ago and I do not remember
Prayers/Praises: The names escape me, but it was a PAX’s uncle (?) getting a stint on Tuesday of this week, a PAX’s mother (or grandmother) moving into assisted living, and finally Roz, Burt and Coney’s neighbor going through some health concerns.
NMS
- Big thanks to Coney and Blowout for the coffee and cake. There’s nothing in this world I appreciate more than coffee and cake.
- I did not appreciate, however, the griping the first 10 minutes of the workout complaining about how easy it was. I like to think we course corrected by the end.
- The over/under for my speech was set at 4:15. The under won by a mile. I’ve learned a thing or two about brevity in my seven years of F3. This backblast not withstanding.
- No blood today. Ends a personal streak. Unfortunate, but we’ll get after it again next week.
- Burt and Ripper came up with a new daily/weekly award - the DMOD and/or DMOW. D*** Move of the Day/Week.
- Turns out I won the inaugural DMOD. I’m truly honored.
- That makes me wonder just how many F3-isms have been started by me or because of me. And I’m not trying to be selfish or arrogant in this thought process. But as a guy who sometimes struggles with feeling like I don’t contribute enough to society in general, I sorta think my contribution to F3, or at least Carpex, has been something to be proud of. A good effort, if nothing else. I know I’m not the most beloved PAX, or the funniest, or the best-looking, or the angriest. But I have to say, I’ve certainly provided my fair share of entertainment to the PAX (usually, if not always, at my own expense).
- Whatever. I’m feeling nostalgic.
- Remember that time I gave a 25-minute speech at the Christmas party and then everyone got norovirus? Were those two things related? Did I infect PAX with a virus simply by being boring as hell? What an accomplishment!
- Remember that time we had a holiday party at Mellow Mushroom? And I brought my 5-month-old son?
- Remember that time we started an AO out in BFE West Cary at this magical land with concrete baseballs? And it was our 4th AO ever. Did I dream that?
- Remember the listserv? I remember the listserv. Incredible stuff.
- Now when I say something dumb on Slack, 600+ people instantly know I’m an idiot. Used to just be like 35 or 40. Shoot, man.
- Remember Matt Damon? Yeah, me neither.
- Remember Werewolf? Yeah, me neither.
- Remember Saturdays at Pullen Park?
- Remember Ollie?
- Remember the original Beige Bros, like before the new Beige Bros? Like, the Tuesday morning Beige Bros? That was back when your mile pace could still start with an 8.
- Remember when backblasts were posted on the F3Nation site?!?
- Hell, remember backblasts?
- It’s been a helluva ride. I’ve enjoyed most of it.
- See you in the gloom.
Callahan