Remember way back when I set a personal goal of ripping out 5 consecutive double-unders without resorting to inserting single-unders between each rep? No? Dang, people -- it was just a few hours ago. Pay attention.
After the dishes were done and the kids were put to bed, I decided to squeeze in some practice. While M did Christine in the garage again (this time, she finished in 14:05 as RXed), I grabbed my Buddy Lee rope and trotted into the backyard.
It took me a while to get going, but once I learned to slow my pace and control my leg kick, whaddaya know? I actually started putting some double-unders together. First, it was two, then three, but each time I felt like I was about to take off, I was interrupted by a clumsy trip-up and/or a nasty whiplash on my arms. But then: A breakthrough.
I ran to the garage (where M was rowing up a storm) and proudly announced: "EIGHT! EIGHT IN A ROW!"
Bug-eyed and out-of-breath, I nonetheless hurried back for more. No go -- after two or three in a row, I got tangled in the rope again. But now, I knew I could do this. I tried again. And again. And again. Then: "FOURTEEN!" I was in the double-digits. I wanted to scream.
More stumbling and tripping followed, but after a few more minutes of sweaty effort... "TWENTY-ONE!"
Holy crap. After months and months of being miserably stuck at the double-under / single-under / double-under plateau, I was finally -- FINALLY! -- getting somewhere.
It was about this time that my six-year-old came tearing out into the living room, freaked out by the sounds of a whipping rope, trotting footsteps and high-pitched squeals of excitement emanating from outside his bedroom window. But I couldn't stop now. I relocated to the driveway and kept practicing.
So it was in the orange glow of the streetlamp that I wrapped up the evening session with twenty-four (YES: TWENTY-FOUR!) double-unders in a row -- with not a solitary single-under among 'em. I was so giddy that I didn't even care that the lady down the street with the dog was staring at me, trying to figure out why I was jumping rope in my pajama bottoms. (By the way, I'm starting to think that my flannel PJ pants are imbuing me with magical goal-busting abilities. Don't be surprised if I show up at the gym with 'em.)
I know, I know: You're thinking "CALM DOWN ALREADY. So you can jump rope. BIG FRIGGIN' DEAL." Well, it is to me. Tonight, I'm as satisfied as this smug, half-naked pig over here: