My junior year of college, without having done any research into the matter, I decided I wanted to run a marathon. Because I generally act on impulse and rarely on good sense or practicality, I immediately bought a legitimate pair of running shoes. It wasn’t until a few days later, when I investigated how to train for said marathon, that I discovered such a race is 26.2 miles.
I never made it out the door.
So when Anna Marie and I were selected to be competitors in a local brewery’s Olympics, I was understandably worried. I envisioned myself doing keg stand push-ups, climbing out of a fermentation vat, and deadlifting huge bags of grain. Luckily, the folks at Saint Arnold recognized that if you’re into spending an entire Saturday at a brewery, you’re probably not super fitness-oriented.
AM and I, flanked by our 3-person fan club, arrived early and discovered Saint Arnold was offering unlimited barbecue and beer. A lesson I didn’t but should have learned from my experience at the Warrior Dash is that it is generally inadvisable to drink beer before immediately engaging in physical activity. Considering this our first challenge of the day, however, we loaded up our plates and goblets, and went to town.
Once adequately sated, everyone assembled outside for the first challenge. Each team was required to roll a barrel around a maze of kegs. Upon reaching the end, both teammates had to chug a bottle of root beer. It is important to note here that the Olympics took place in June. Houston in June is hot. About 110° hot. Root beer left outside in this weather becomes quite warm and unpleasant to the taste. Also, AM’s and my decision to wear all black to appear intimidating totally backfired – not only did we look scrawny and young, we also overheated. As should be expected, our execution of this task was dismal. Jordie helpfully filmed our shameful performance for
merciless teasing posterity.
I’d like to detail the other challenges that the winning teams faced, but I spent the rest of the day inside the brewery, stifling root beer-induced burps and softly crying. I guess I don’t have the heart of an Olympian after all.