Squat Cleans: I Hate-Love You So

Yesterday morning, I sprung out of bed at 6:00 a.m. and was loading veggies and fruit and protein into my shopping cart at HEB by 7:15. Back at home, I blogged and chopped and stirred and sauteed for the week, while simultaneously doing loads of laundry. I was a home making machine… until about 4:30 p.m. when I collapsed into a heap on the bed, making a very irritating whining noise.

This morning, I woke up with aching shoulders and ridiculously tight hamstrings, courtesy of Saturday’s Spartan 300. The air was thick with humidity, and the whiteboard said this:

dumbbell squat clean
box steps

Oh, the squat clean. Why does it torment me so? It’s like the nastier, trashier cousin of the thruster… the mean girl in high school who doesn’t just trip you in the cafeteria, but sweetly makes sure you’ve got a big bowl of soup on your tray — “Isn’t chicken noodle your favorite?” she asks with a smile — before she sends you sprawling.

I used 25-lb. dumbbells and fought my way through the workout in 16:44. I forced myself to get into the “stick” at the bottom of the squat, even though my lungs and legs screamed at me to stop. My pullups were a sad joke, but they’ll get better.

Then we did 50 situps and 50 supermans… and sprints.

I thought I was gonna barf after the first 200m sprint, and I told myself I couldn’t possibly do another one. But when Carey asked me if I wanted to do one more and “better my time,” I (wo)manned up. And I did go faster on the second one — by four seconds… which just goes to show me that sometimes, I don’t know what I’m talking about.

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