An Understanding of Sacrifice

 The clock said 72:12, but it felt so much longer; in fact, for a moment it felt as if time was not just standing still, but never-ending.  I felt like Dormammu and the workout was the equivalent of Dr. Strange tormenting me with the time loop.  The sound of 90s alternative still pounded out of the speakers, but all I could hear was the tapping of feet on boxes and labored respirations across the workout floor that was now pouring with sweat and soul captivity.  Faces were lethargic and grimacing in pure agony - and I am not sure there was any feeling of ecstasy when it was completed; more personal introspection on what just transpired and what we chose to put ourselves through for the past duration of a painstaking Bridgerton episode (and personally, equally exciting and painful).  “Chad.”  That was the task; 1000 box step ups with a 35/45 lbs. ruck. That was all.  A simple movement that required nothing more than the constitution of a level 10 cleric.  

The stories are all harrowing; all very different but have a similar tone and resolution.  All of the individuals honored had served.  And many, many times we have thanked them for their service.  Not specifically, or in a personal greeting, but in gesture, attitude and demeanor.  So much so, that it is hard not to get emotional when their stories are retold, not as fabled tales of glory to which we ride into battle, but as somber reminders that there are many out there doing what some would consider the unthinkable.  Athletes and actors are placed upon pedestals every day, and discussed, honored or torn down amongst the multitude of talking heads and orators, to their greatness or depravity.  And we live in the unfortunate reality that it is not until a sobering moment that many reflect on others who exemplified the true meaning of sacrifice.  I for one am not a fan of referring to quarterbacks having “offensive weapons” to throw to, nor a “pitchers arsenal,” or “field generals,” but not so much that I am going to not watch - it is more of a pet peeve.  When taking into account the actions of the specific individuals Apollo chose to honor, you connect the measure of dedication and sacrifice they and their families endured. But one stood out; one was definitely different; one reflected a man that did not lose his life in-the-line of duty, but after.  And the weight he carried echoes the thoughts and meticulous details outlined in Tim O’Brien’s seminal work The Things They Carried. 

Chad Wilkinson was a 22-year active-duty SEAL.  Many of us heard his tale before engaging in the workout, or did our own deep-dive into his story prior or post, but the energetic connection with the concept of the WOD, and the emotional frailty of the man whom it was named after did not symbolically resonate until taking the first step.  And it was in that moment, and the 999 steps after that it was more than physical.  It transcended the physical, and we all felt it, and the importance of completing it, because we all could take the next step, and the next one, but it was the metaphysical presence and persistence of the weight we carried that meant more than just finishing the WOD, but recognizing the struggle.  And the weight was there, whether or not we “carried” it with us.  We felt it.  Repeatedly.  Continuously.  Monotonously.  Persistently.   

At that moment, “Hell Week” was over for me, and as Wes helped me take of my 5.11 vest with added weight for this workout, I sat on the box that was stained with sweat and spittle to take a short inventory of what had just transpired over the past hour-plus and the previous seven days.  I had already taken my hat off during the workout and discarded it on the floor along with my hopes of completing this WOD in under an hour about 40 minutes ago.  I could not think or even begin to put together a coherent thought.  The only smile that crossed my face during the previous draining of an hour glass was when the aforementioned Wes came by me somewhere around step 700 and said, “this is how Obi-Wan must have felt,” in connection with part 3 of the Disney+ show.  I had to leave; I had to go home and shower and manage to drive myself to work, and then, ironically, walk up two flights of stairs to open up my classroom for summer school.  But I was alive.  We were alive, and that fact resonated with me and through me as I peeled myself out of my mimicked metamorphosis of Rodin’s The Thinker and excused myself from Apollo, ego firmly checked at the door.

Chad mentioned this specific training week about a month ago during a Saturday morning workout.  He was all excited to introduce this “Hell Week” to us that would kick off on Memorial Day Monday with “Hero” WODs each day of the week in honor for those who served and passed away, either in the line of duty, or in some tragic way after they had returned home.  It was an honest and heartfelt endeavor, and honestly the least any of us could do in comparison to the true hero’s that put themselves in the crosshairs of dangers each and every day.  I thought it was a great idea; to participate and survive a “Hell Week” brought back days of high school and college athletics in which “we separated the men from the boys” so-to-speak.  We were all aware of how the week was to begin: Murph.  It is the annual Memorial Day WOD.  Little did we know it was only the ignition to the road to which seemed to lead to zero respite towards recovery over the next 5 to 6 days.  The frivolity of Murph quickly deteriorated as the week passed by, and although the week was bookended with the two longest of WODs, the simplistic nature of the repetitive walk up a stairway to heaven was as arduous as it could be.  Yet, even through staring down an abyss of monotonous conformity there was a light, even if faint, at the end of the blurred tunnel of despair.  Murph on Monday, followed by Laura, Nate, Randy, then culminating on Friday with Chad.  According to some, in his notes to the coaches, Chad was quoted saying, “he almost felt bad for finishing the week with Chad.”  But almost only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and sometimes women.  And yet, I survived, we all did.  And that is something to be grateful for, because we can show up the next day, cheer each other on, and compliment those on a job well done.  Because of the heroes.  Those whom we honored.  And those who work out next to us each day.  “Hell Week” was just a measure of our success, not as athletes, but as a community.  I was more connected to a group of wonderful people than I had ever been this past week, because it felt bigger - and indeed it was.