Boxing Bootcamp Day 10: There Will Be Blood

Ran 3 miles nearly non-stop without puking. For many, perhaps not earth shattering. For the guy who’s most recent and only lengthy runs were the 100 yard wheeze in high school, speed waddling after some dude through the Syracuse University quad trying to get my bong back, and a failed sprint from the SFPD about 2 years ago, that’s pretty damn stellar. Not that I remember anything about that night. And, no sir, I didn’t know she was a he, your honor.

Learned that the guy I thought had a peg leg was in fact was just injured that day. And that this is his 2nd boot camp in as many months. And he’s a now team leader for our workouts. And he makes us run the 3 miles about ten times faster than Simon. Thanks Jack Sparrow. Thanks a lot. Arrrrrrr.

Didn’t slice my foot open on the jagged rocks climbing out of the bay after jumping into its icy waters after the 3 mile run. Which everyone who was late this week had to do. Not the slicing foot part, but the jumping in the bay part. I didn’t do either. But Miss Iowa did both. She’s the hot chick who always wears the Iowa State sweatshirt, swears like a sailor and very vocally hates the spiders which her friends told her are rampant on the SF docks we’re running to (?!) as well as jumping into freezing water. Following McGraw and the blonde who I swear went into hypothermia-induced cardiac arrest as she clawed her way belly first up the knife sharp shoreline (her eyes rolling to the back of the head accompanied by a mild keening reminiscent of a dying horse tipped me off), Miss Iowa mumbled something about her foot bleeding. At which point I nearly puked at the site of Tarintino-red goo pools smeared across the pavement of the dock. I forget that real blood, looks…like…um…..real…bloooarghphreew so light headed bile rising must start running back to the gym to keep from passing out. Somebody wrapped her foot up in dirty sweat socks and drove her to emergency room, I think.

Anyway, I’m not bleeding, and it’s Friday. I’ve reached the typical level of smothering Kei obsession as I do with all things competitive: I’m thinking of spending tonight watching YouTube vids of Ali fights, then heading to McGraw & Dutro’s this weekend to see if real life strategy works the same on XBox boxing on the wide screen.

Oh, Kei “Die In a Vegas Penthouse Suite Soiled in a Pool of Your Own Vomit Under Some Cocaine Snorting SwimSuit Model Tied to the Bed” Gowda. Where have you gone? Will you ever return?

Oh, lawdy, I miss him so.

(But to be honest? Being “Punch Me In The Face and Then Let’s Run Some Windsprints Until We Pass Out” Kei is turning out to be pretty fun, too.)