The Challenge
Describe how you willingly and voluntarily put yourself into a great deal of pain. The kind of pain that no one would be willing to accept under ordinary circumstances. You may use any medium you see fit. There is no word minimum or maximum.
The Challengers
In another OurThursday first, we are opening up this challenge not just to the authors, but to anyone who is willing to jot something down. That means you!
Please send your submission to [email protected]. I will be posting the submissions on Friday Morning so you will have something to do while you avoid work before the weekend. To get the ball rolling, here is my submission…
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Luke’s Response
“Holy Shit! Did you see that?” I panted to the guy next to me as a knee in front of us exploded from the center splattering the two nearest cyclists with long gooey threads of lactic acid.
“One …. less,” was all he could manage in reply to my rhetorical question…
Three kilometers to go
Elbows come easily when every inch of distance between you and the bike in front is worth more than the balls you have squashed deep inside your groin. The trick to a good bike race elbow is to hit low on the forearm causing the most bike wiggle and put your adversary back a few irrecoverable bike lengths.
At 50 km/h, exposing even a third of your body to the surrounding wind pocket you have found yourself in, will instantly cause acute pulmonary explosion. Not a pleasant sight, I’ve seen it. Guys popping off the sides and getting blasted out of memory like that first blind date you should have never taken. The edges of the group cling on for dear life, grasping and clawing at any resemblance of space. As the pace picks up to 53km/h, there are no friends, their are no hiding spots. There is only the sweet smell of exploded lung as you flail your final elbow at the douche bag who clipped your tire as you tumble into obscurity.
Two kilometers to go
Three guys bounce to the opposite side of the road and sprint away.
You learn a lot about a person in this random situation of life. A man could go now and work his clogged artery clear to catch the breakaway, only to be out of all energy for the final sprint. He is considered a good, hard worker, and the whole world appreciates and needs what he does. But only the few guys around him at the time will ever see this, and will likely forget about it after the next two kilometers as their bodies direct all blood to their oxygen depleted, and partially functioning, brains.
Or you could just stare blankly at everybody and do nothing. You defer the decision to someone else, hoping that your chances will be better in the next fifty seconds. Maybe you have a retarded stare naturally, or maybe you play it dumb, it doesn’t matter… you will be receiving the next available elbow and your chances for a safe arrival have dropped 25% because no one likes you.
Or ideally, you organize the men around you and coordinate a ten second rotation that uses up the equivalent amount of energy in each of these human bags of protein and enertia. People love you and then they hate you when they realize the pace is now 58km/h.
1,000 meters to go
The final turn. The mysterious reason that has compelled me to spend 20 hours a week converting my gonch into a leather knife sharpener shows itself. I presume it is the finish line because the onlookers have pushed and shoved their way so densely around and in front of it, that only a herculian leap could actually get you there. Or maybe slamming head first, ass up, into them at 65km/h will get you through. One or the other.
500 meters to go
The most anxious of the group bursts out of his saddle and the sprint begins. Our once efficient air dagger that we maintained for two hours is thrown to the wayside stabbing a baby cow.
300 meters to go
The narrow country lane is filled edge to edge with cyclists who’s only emotion is maniacal lust for an imaginary line. This lust tastes good … real good, and for this reason the tongues hang out to lap up any maniacal lust that might have fallen off the guy in front.
100 meters to go
65km/h and my heart rate is bubbling past 210 beats per second. I invite you to my Zen world of body over mind. In these conditions, the brain is no match for an inflamed mound of muscle incestualy invigorated by a mix of eight liters of adrenaline and a british pint of lactic acid. Thinking with your muscles is an outrageous experience. You can’t see. The only thing you feel is the sense that you’re about to explode. And your thoughts are binary. On. Off. On. Off.
5 meters to go
The fact that the onlookers have still not moved does not concern me. It will all be over soon. All I can see are two wheels. Mine and the guy’s next to me. Fuck this guy. Who does he think he is?
3 meters to go
He pulls ahead with a lurch of his bike and suddenly the world is awash with failure and heartache. I travelled so far. I trained for so long. I worked so hard. And like a rabid bat, my hopes for redemption flutter away beyond my grasp. I consider taking him out in a spectacular climax to what would otherwise be a boring story.
1 meter to go
I often visualize what life would be like if we lived every minute of every day in the final passionate throws of a bike race sprint. Once you got over the fact that we would all be walking around with our tounges hanging out and wearing spandex, we would realize that our world suddenly became conquerable and was no longer a mystery. It is at this time that life finds new ways to exist. Like the infinitely split atom that will forever keep getting smaller, life can find new existence when pushed hard enough. Like the cold fusion power plant that I am, I chuck, hurl, roll, and muster even more energy and strength to frantically launch my body into an epileptic frenzy. I am moving so fast I appear to be a blur to the wall of onlookers I am about to eradicate. I look to my right and see myself. An exhausted vessel of emerging life, finally climaxing after many an hour of fore play
Epilogue
Standing on a podium, thats pretty cool. Having some fat guy drape a medal around your neck while you lift the flowers and shake your fists to the crowd in anger and love, oh that’s nice. But pushing yourself past a limit of pain that you thought never existed, and likely doesn’t exist anymore, is a gift and pleasure that can not be equalled by most anything on this planet. Bring on the pain.
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Brian’s Response
Lying alone in bed the morning after a one-night-stand. . .
“I got something this time. I know it. Syphilis, Chlamydia, Gonorrhea. I just hope it’s not one of the permanent ones like Herpes or . . . no, it’s not that one. It’s definitely not that one. Although, she had a little bit of a “junky” look to her. Fuck me, she’s a heroin addict who has AIDS – and now I have it. I’m stuck with her for the rest of my life.
“Relax. Chill. It’s just sex. People have it all the time. Look at Joey from Friends – he fucked tons of chicks. You’re 27, this is what you’re supposed to be doing. You got laid last night! Be happy!”
“You’re right . . . you’re totally right . . . fuck yea, I got laid. What am I trippin for? I love my life. She’d tell me if she had something.”
“Exactly.”
“But . . . what if she didn’t know?
“Don’t start, dude.”
“I’m not “starting”. Im just saying – sometimes people can have it without even knowing. Remember the article we read last time? About how some people experience no symptoms at all? Or the symptoms are so minor they go undetected. What if she’s one of those? . . . I’m just gonna check something real quick.”
“I swear to God, if you go on Google – I’m out. Seriously. Kiss the voice of reason good-bye. Remember the article we read on STRESS? And how it can lead to more serious health issues than the ones you’re worried about? How you can manifest very real illnesses from stressing over nonexistent ones?” Is that what you want? I don’t think you’re liver and lungs can handle another six months of paranoia.”
“I’m not going on Google. . . ”
“Good. Go grab some lunch or something.”
“Dear God, I know we haven’t spoken in a while, but if . . ”
“Ohhhh Myyy Goddd!! Are you serious dude? You’re a fucking Atheist! Really? You’re soo scared about it that you’re gonna pray to a God you don’t even believe in? You’re a fucking idiot.”
” . . if you can hear me, I’d like to make a promise. If you get me out of this, I swear I won’t go past 2nd base anymore – until marriage. I’ll get married, be faithful, and raise a big happy family that goes to church every Sunday. . . and I’ll give 10 . . 20 . . . 30 percent of my paycheck to the Church . . . or to the AIDS foundation? Whichever you prefer. We can work that out. Maybe a split.”
“I knew you couldn’t fucking handle this. I warned you last night that you’d regret it in the morning. It takes six months for a conclusive HIV test. It’s been about 14 hours. Have fun waiting.”
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Random Dude’s Response
My body fills with pain every time you ask one of these retarded Challenge Blogs and I want to yank out my own scrotum and serve it to you just to show that the pain I endure from that procedure pails in comparison to the pain of Challenge Blogs.
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