[_playhouse] Everybody wants to be a Clydsdale - Tip the Scales!

AO: _playhouse
Q: Foundation
PAX: Hollywood, Dasher – Jeff Green, Fuse Box, Rain Man, Bottlecap, Shriver, Ice9, Singlet – Justin Nelson, Retiree, Rooster, Hooch – Bret Turner, Deadwood, Chastain, Zinfandel, 0
FNGs: 1 0
COUNT: 15
Per my pre-blast Ignition was supposed to be an opportunity for the big-boned brethren to experience life without getting smoked by some dude who carb-loads on a kale-infused, oat-milk protein shake and thinks turmeric cures everything. But for ONE DAY, we flipped the script. We brought the weight to them. We made the gazelles feel what it’s like to carry around a realistic dad bod, instead of their usual I-run-sub-8s-because-I-only-eat-air-and-resent-my-childhood pace.

The Weigh-In: Ain’t No Scale Big Enough
So the plan was simple: We weigh in, and whoever’s tipping the scales the most gets to skip the extra weight. Beautiful, right? Well, as luck or 43 years of overeating would have it, your boy YHC won the heavyweight belt—so, no weight for me (almost like it was planned). By the way, that ice cream sundae the night before was heavenly. I overcame the days of accidental intermittent fasting in my youth. Starvation is overrated. I like my sandwiches with both buns.

Meanwhile, the rest of the PAX got to experience what it’s like being a full-sized adult male. You should’ve seen their faces when they had to grab sandbags, rucks, or dumbbells. The groans? Magnificent. Absolute music to my ears. Only Chastain bailed. Shocker. Damn gingers—born without souls or work ethic (besided you Ice9).

The Mosey: Suddenly We’re All on the Same Pace
Then we took off on our new and improved mosey. And guess what? That usual sub-8 sprint for no reason? GONE. Suddenly, everyone’s right at that comfortable 9-minute mile. Wow! Look what happens when you carry a fraction of the weight I lug around every day! YHC felt like a freakin’ Daytona 500 champion, weaving my way to the front while Dasher – Jeff Green repeatedly made me feel at home back in NJ as he flipped me the bird, at every chance. Love you too, pal.

After a warmup—where half the PAX realized they made poor life choices—we moseyed to the traffic circles where music was blaring, mostly to drown out the whining. And Hatchet I saved R. Kelly’s “Ignition” for when you decide to join me for one of my Qs. We are going to be pissing excellence (pun intended)

We hit a triple nickel at the benches by the high school—5 merkins at the bottom, 15 dips at the top. Five rounds. Simple, right? But here’s where the Clydesdales took over. For once, we weren’t the six… WE WERE THE FRONT and it was GLORIOUS!! Fellow Clydales you would have been proud as, I made sure that as soon as the 6 came in, I quickly called for mosey. (We have all been there and curse damn gazelles as they “mary” or sit and drink tea and crumpits relaxing and wait until we are damn near ready to pass out upon completing whatever it was called before and are within shouting distance and they call a long mosey right away. REVENGE was ours for the day.

4 Corners of Regret in High School Parking Lot. Progressive 4 Corners.
– Corner 1: 5 Merkins.
– Corner 2: 10 Speed Skaters.
– Corner 3: 15 Big Boys.
– Corner 4: 20 Squats.
– Pretty straightforward—until you realize it’s cumulative. So yeah, have fun with that, fellas.

We have a bit more time so decided to add in 2 lines and do 2 more laps around parking lot with burpee indian run. Then shoot up to front of school heading back towards COT with jailbreak, indian run??

Make it back to COT for few laps to get little bit extra mileage. All in all everyone easily cleared the 4 mile requirment and by the end, we had built an army of temporary Clydesdales—at least until these idiots drop the sandbags and go back to their beyond-meat, vegan nonsense lifestyle. But for one glorious morning, we proved that gravity is undefeated.
COT. Prayers. Coffeeteria.

#HeavyLivesMatter