fine with me. “All right, ladies. We’re going to start with suicides and burpees and then move into some jamming and pack drills before the scrimmage.”
Practice was brutal. About halfway through the two-minute suicide drill, full of nonstop full-speed skating from cone to cone punctuated by double knee slides, I looked up to see Ruthanasia staring me down from her spot on the sidelines as if she was waiting for me to fall. I wouldn’t have put it past her to pick endurance drills just to prove that I didn’t belong there, so I pushed aside the burning in my lungs and the aching of leg muscles still unused to all the work, and skated harder. I brought up the rear, but I finished. By the time we were done, I had a killer stitch in my side and streams of sweat running into my eyes. I’d have to remember a headband next time. You’d think I would have remembered what it’s like to lack the sweat-mopping protection of hair, but I’d already forgotten.
Everyone looked wiped, but I was the only one who couldn’t stand upright. Ruthanasia had this triumphant expression like she’d managed to score a point. I straightened, lacing my hands behind my head to ease the pain, and breathed slow and easy. This was my lack of conditioning at work. This was not weakness. This was not cancer, part deux. And I was going to shove my skate up her butt if she didn’t stop looking at me like that.
Michael took the stopwatch from her, and she gave him a flirty look from beneath lowered lashes that he missed or ignored. I was hoping for the latter, but I’d take either. And then he said, “My turn. Burpees. I want the whole team, not just the applicants. We’re going to do them until you drop. Last one standing wins.”
Michael and Ruthanasia turned to look at me in unison, and I knew what this was. It was a challenge, and I wasn’t about to back down. Ruthanasia took a spot next to me; Michael blew the whistle.
It was on.
We began running in place, lifting our knees high, the wheels of our skates clomping on the floor in an increasing rhythm. Michael blew the whistle, and down we went, dropping onto both knees and then getting back up to run. Another whistle, and we dropped again. And again. And again.
The first applicant dropped out, chest heaving. Two more followed, so quickly that I knew they’d been holding on just so they wouldn’t have to be the first to go. The other derby girls began to quit, slowly and steadily—they didn’t have anythingto lose, so I think they quit as soon as it started to get tough. Darcy began coughing hard, gasping for air, and fell to her butt on the floor. I couldn’t even manage to ask if she was okay; I needed every ounce of oxygen to fuel my muscles. Pain flared in places that I’d forgotten could hurt. My knees ached despite the pads, and my feet felt like lead. Barbageddon dropped out. It was just me and Ruthanasia.
Her teeth were bared as she crashed to the floor again, but I was right there with her. Maybe she was stronger than me. Maybe I’d lost ground physically speaking, and maybe I never would have been able to rival her even if I hadn’t. She was pretty cut. But I had one thing she didn’t—I knew pain. I knew it like the back of my hand; I knew it like my oldest friend. I knew its shape and scope. I knew how to endure it. In the Olympics of pain, I was a gold medalist.
So I held on. I breathed through the agony, the firing of neurons that were decidedly unhappy with my stubborn refusal to quit already. I kept going as the world narrowed to the patch of floor beneath me and the sound of the whistle and the need to endure just one more drop to the floor over and over again. I would not stop. I would not give in.
But while my spirit was willing, my body wasn’t. Michael blew the whistle again, and I dropped to my knees. The smooth wood of the floor went wavy; my vision wouldn’t focus. Everything felt far away, like I was looking at my own hands through a telescope. I
Practice was brutal. About halfway through the two-minute suicide drill, full of nonstop full-speed skating from cone to cone punctuated by double knee slides, I looked up to see Ruthanasia staring me down from her spot on the sidelines as if she was waiting for me to fall. I wouldn’t have put it past her to pick endurance drills just to prove that I didn’t belong there, so I pushed aside the burning in my lungs and the aching of leg muscles still unused to all the work, and skated harder. I brought up the rear, but I finished. By the time we were done, I had a killer stitch in my side and streams of sweat running into my eyes. I’d have to remember a headband next time. You’d think I would have remembered what it’s like to lack the sweat-mopping protection of hair, but I’d already forgotten.
Everyone looked wiped, but I was the only one who couldn’t stand upright. Ruthanasia had this triumphant expression like she’d managed to score a point. I straightened, lacing my hands behind my head to ease the pain, and breathed slow and easy. This was my lack of conditioning at work. This was not weakness. This was not cancer, part deux. And I was going to shove my skate up her butt if she didn’t stop looking at me like that.
Michael took the stopwatch from her, and she gave him a flirty look from beneath lowered lashes that he missed or ignored. I was hoping for the latter, but I’d take either. And then he said, “My turn. Burpees. I want the whole team, not just the applicants. We’re going to do them until you drop. Last one standing wins.”
Michael and Ruthanasia turned to look at me in unison, and I knew what this was. It was a challenge, and I wasn’t about to back down. Ruthanasia took a spot next to me; Michael blew the whistle.
It was on.
We began running in place, lifting our knees high, the wheels of our skates clomping on the floor in an increasing rhythm. Michael blew the whistle, and down we went, dropping onto both knees and then getting back up to run. Another whistle, and we dropped again. And again. And again.
The first applicant dropped out, chest heaving. Two more followed, so quickly that I knew they’d been holding on just so they wouldn’t have to be the first to go. The other derby girls began to quit, slowly and steadily—they didn’t have anythingto lose, so I think they quit as soon as it started to get tough. Darcy began coughing hard, gasping for air, and fell to her butt on the floor. I couldn’t even manage to ask if she was okay; I needed every ounce of oxygen to fuel my muscles. Pain flared in places that I’d forgotten could hurt. My knees ached despite the pads, and my feet felt like lead. Barbageddon dropped out. It was just me and Ruthanasia.
Her teeth were bared as she crashed to the floor again, but I was right there with her. Maybe she was stronger than me. Maybe I’d lost ground physically speaking, and maybe I never would have been able to rival her even if I hadn’t. She was pretty cut. But I had one thing she didn’t—I knew pain. I knew it like the back of my hand; I knew it like my oldest friend. I knew its shape and scope. I knew how to endure it. In the Olympics of pain, I was a gold medalist.
So I held on. I breathed through the agony, the firing of neurons that were decidedly unhappy with my stubborn refusal to quit already. I kept going as the world narrowed to the patch of floor beneath me and the sound of the whistle and the need to endure just one more drop to the floor over and over again. I would not stop. I would not give in.
But while my spirit was willing, my body wasn’t. Michael blew the whistle again, and I dropped to my knees. The smooth wood of the floor went wavy; my vision wouldn’t focus. Everything felt far away, like I was looking at my own hands through a telescope. I
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