Challenge: 5-minute wall sit

In conjunction with the preparation for the Dunk by 38 through out the Year of the Leg, I came up with a 5-minute wall sit challenge to give me something to shoot toward during the first third of the year long leg focus. With swimming three to four times a week, a killer Saturday leg set, jump roping two days a week, my legs have been shot for the greater part of the spring. Jaron thought I was a crazy SOB for attempting a challenge during this phase of hypertrophy. Three weeks back he wisely suggested I do a quick time check. In his professional opinion I should be able to hit 3:15 as a bench mark. WRONG! 2:10... wah wah waaaah. Aside from the brain aneurysm and double quad convulsions, I was horrified at the terrible time logged. Not to mention a sophomoric textual beat down by the Rudy Ray Moore of muscle building.

I had three weeks to bridge the remaining 2:50. The only way Jaron could imagine me gaining nearly three minutes would be to add timed wall sits each week, and increase them by :30 seconds each week and then consider animal sacrifices if all else fails. Unfortunately for me it took five days to recover from each weeks' leg workout. From the test set until today, I attempted four timed wall sits. The last one came this past week; squeaking out a gut busting 4:00. Have you ever enjoyed the scene in Great Outdoors when Chet Ripley realizes he still has to down the gristle to complete the Old 96er challenge? That's what the prospect of 4:01 to 5:00 looked like to me. Unfortunately for me, I ain't getting no Paul Bunyan hats.


So today, after a four-hour stint at Wet'n Wild I put in the mouth piece, cranked up the MGMT, and hit go on the stop watch. However, unlike my preparation runs, I forgot my lifting gloves. Being a superstitious workout understudy, I panicked. Then my phone dropped off my leg causing me to lean down, exerting extra energy. But I was not going to turn this into another "6-minute mile" debacle. Three minutes in I began shaking like... (insert your favorite socialite rehabbing detox cliché here). Then galactic time stopped at 4:09. Had death shuttled me to the other side? Nope, my full body quivers had just caused the lap timer to trigger. 4:20... 4:21... 4... Holy hell I'm going to pass out!!! Why is St. Vincent crawling up my leg in a NASCAR uniform? THE COFFIN IS CLOSING!

At the five minute and seven seconds mark I slid to the floor in pain and anonymous glory.