Muscle failure, that is.
That was pretty much today's theme. Just work a muscle group until it just doesn't work anymore. Then move to another, and repeat. It was brutal. Sgt. Ken was back from his vacation, and he wanted to make sure he was just as tough as Amber had been while he was gone.
I figured out today that regular strenuous exercise doesn't actually make you live longer; it just makes it seem like you do.
I can just see me in my sixties, getting up at 4:30 to go to boot camp, thinking "Christ, this is miserable. Why can't I just DIE already? I need the rest..."
Then I'll think, "No, I don't want to die just yet; that muddy buddy race is next weekend and I think I can take my age group no sweat. Probably the next age group down, too..."
I cried during about 30% of the class this morning. Partly out of frustration (my dive-bomber push-ups don't even remotely resemble dive-bomber push-ups), but mostly it's just a weird physical reaction my body has to intense strain. It happened to me when I ran the Country Music Half Marathon, too. I don't know whether people can see that I'm crying or if it just all blends in with the pain-contorted, sweat-dripping faces of the rest of the class. I've ceased to be terribly concerned about it, except that I don't want newbies seeing me break down and be frightened off. I need a tee-shirt that says, "The tears don't matter; the results DO." I might have to make myself that shirt this weekend...