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Coach Dan John and I recently published an article called Test Your Grit. In that piece I mentioned doing one-mile farmer's walks. I've had a lot of questions about that example of enthusiastic insanity, so I thought I'd repost an old blog about it.
Don't try this home.
Actually, do try this at home. Just don't sue me if you end up in the hospital.
Redneck Sunday
My toughest workouts aren't in the gym. Instead they take place out in the flat countryside of Texas. A couple of times per month, a few of us country boys gather together outside the city limits sign and have what we call a "Redneck Sunday." Anything goes during these workouts as long as it doesn't involve traditional equipment or any exercise you'd see in a normal gym.
During our last Redneck Sunday we had a "special guest appearance." This is what we call those people who always beg to train with us, come out for one workout, and never show up again. We get a lot of those.
That day's special guest was Steve, who had a habit of doing more talking than lifting back in our regular gym. So that fine Sunday afternoon, in front of God , Jesus, and George Dubya, we decided to kill Steve.
The best way to kill Steve, we reckoned, was to train him to death. Of course, we had to do the same workout he did, but Steve was kind of a newbie so we figured he'd fall over dead long before we would.
We warmed up that day doing the poor boy's caber toss. This involves performing a Highland games-style caber toss with a big piece of telephone pole we had laying around. (Yes, Texans have that kind of shit laying around the yard.)
The toss is nothing; it's picking that sumbitch up and stabilizing it that kills you. After ten tosses each, it was time to bring out the big guns: the farmer's walk rails.
A few months before, we'd found some old pieces of railroad iron and had a welder slap on some fat handles. We made two pair, one pair about 120 pounds per rail and the other about 200. Normally, we'd walk up and down the driveway with these bad boys until someone puked. But that day, vomiting wasn't going to be enough. Steve had to die.
The Walk
So we decided to take a walk. Across an unused field beside our friend's house stands one scraggly old tree. It's about a mile walk there and back - if you don't get bit by a rattler along the way. (If you do get bit, the walk seems way longer.) When we really wanted to torture our special guests, we'd ask them if they wanted to take The Walk.
Steve thought a walk would be nice. Of course, he didn't know the difference between "a walk" and "The Walk."
We broke up into pairs. One pair grabbed the 240 pounds of railroad iron and the other grabbed a beer keg three-fourths of the way full of water. An old beer keg can make a great home training tool. Since the water in the keg sloshes around, it's probably the most unstable thing you could carry, no matter how you try to lift it.
The plan was to walk all the way out to the tree and back. One pair would start with the keg and the other would start with the rails. Half a mile later when we reached the tree, we'd switch implements.
To make it the full mile, each partner wold take turns carrying the object. When one person couldn't go on, his partner would grab the implement and continue. The goal was the carry your object as far as possible before dropping it. Progress was measured by how few switches you had to make with your partner. If your partner wimped out and made shorter carries than you, it was deemed lawful to try to hit him with said object as you dropped it.
Steve was my partner and, since he desperately needed to die, we decided to carry the rails last, after we were already exhausted from lugging the barrel half a mile. Soon, Steve couldn't catch his breath and therefore couldn't speak.
This was a step in the right direction.
But Steve survived the stroll, though his hands were bleeding and he was getting the dry heaves. It was time for a finisher.
The Pick-Up Truck Finisher
Our finisher was pushing a pick-up over uneven ground for 40 yards. One guy would push and one would sit in the cab and apply the brake if it got too easy on the pusher. Twenty minutes later Steve was on the ground heaving again, but still alive. I'm pretty sure I saw the Grim Reaper peaking out from behind the shed.
Steve was almost worm food. He'd had enough. So we attached a rope to the truck and took turns pulling it back the other direction. Still, Steve continued to process oxygen.
It was so annoying.
Most of us decided to skip Monday's regular gym workout because our entire bodies were bruised and sore. And Steve? Well, he lived. But he never showed up for Redneck Sunday again.
Too bad really. We were just beginning to like the kid.
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