Rain pours outside Greely’s salon,
and with a flash of lightening, Clint Eastwood’s haggard face is illuminated to
the men he is about to gun down. For a
few seconds, the only audible sound is raindrops, but Eastwood’s presence is
booming, as it is throughout one of the greatest films of all time, Unforgiven.
I have always admired these men—the bad asses—largely due to my father.
After 21 years in the U.S. Army, he
has collected a glass case full of medals and military decorations. Above all,
he holds the Ranger tab—a symbol marking the most badass of badasses.
Just to give you an idea, of the
soldiers who arrive for Ranger school in Fort
Benning, Georgia,
only 10 percent pass.
Needless to say, I fall a bit short
in comparison.
As a child, I almost always placed
at the bottom of the list for the gym class fitness test. I watched classmates
scuttle by, as I huffed and puffed behind the pack. In my mind, becoming president was as likely
as me doing a pull-up.
I played sports as a kid and in
high school, but never took fitness too seriously.
Or at least, until my junior year
of college.
Upon arriving at William &
Mary’s campus as a freshman, I grabbed a cold beer and, for about two years,
one never left my hand. I prided myself
in downing liters upon liters of beer with the top bros, but my hobby was
starting to show.
I took a trip to Mexico where I
spent days roasting on a beach. At the
time, I weighed about 220 pounds without an ounce of muscle.
Looking at photos from that trip
was my shock, my catalyst, and daily reminder to haul ass to the gym.
To put
it mildly, I resembled one of those purple monsters from the McDonald’s
commercials (minions to the Hamburgler, I assume).
With a
jug of whey protein in one hand, and a dumbbell in the other, I’ve spent the
past three years moving further and further away from that beer-swollen beach
bum.
Of
course, I’m no where near Arnold
status, but I’m overall pretty happy.
Passersby
have mistaken me for a soldier, or even an NBA basketball player. One highly
intoxicated middle-aged vacationer even bowed to me and called me Apollo (in
her defense, it was in Greece,
and she probably passed out five minutes later).
She may have also been confused, as this is how I usually dress.
Muscles
aside, I still would not count myself among the badasses.
In the
aftermath of the Boston
bombings, media outlets praised the first responders—those who flung themselves
into black clouds of ash to help others.
And why
not?
Our
natural instinct is to run away from away from an explosion, not toward
it. It seems much easier to shy away from a
challenge than face it, or walk around the base of a mountain rather than climb
it.
So, on
September 7, the day before my 24th birthday, I will throw myself on
the fire, trudge up the peak, and reach for that whiskey-ridden grail of
badassdom.
I will take
part in a Goruck Challenge—a 15 to 20 mile, 8 to 10 hour, taste of Special
Forces training.
Goruck
is a company that peddles military grade rucksacks and gear to those with an
eye for gear that endures. The challenge began as a testament that the gear
could truly survive anything.
But,
whispers of receiving an ass kicking from former Special Forces operatives
reached the ears of weekend warriors and the challenge took off.
Over
the next few months, I’ll use this blog to track my exercise and activities as
I work to strengthen body, but especially, mind.
I do
not expect to be welcomed by Army Rangers, constantly greeted by flashes of
lightning, nor feared by the villains of Gotham.
Truthfully,
I expect few, if any, will care when I’ve completed the Goruck Challenge.
But, I
guess that’s part of being a badass. At
the end of the day, the only person you have to prove anything to is
yourself.
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