I am the only non-white homeowner in my island community of 5,000 people. But that’s not how anyone knows me. Around here, I’m “that runner guy.” The one who runs rain or shine, hot or cold, shirt or no shirt. I walked into our annual club owner’s governance meeting, a room full of important people discussing important island matters, and someone greeted me with, “Hey, it’s the runner guy!”
Not Paolo. Not even “that Asian guy.”
The runner guy.
I’ve made peace with this. It’s an honest assessment of how I spend my time.
People often marvel at my consistency and discipline. They watch me head out in the pouring rain or the brutal heat and they shake their heads. “How do you have the discipline?” they ask.
Here’s my secret: it’s not discipline. Running is like breathing for me. It’s not a “hard thing” I force myself to do. I don’t white-knuckle my way through marathons fueled by willpower and protein gels.
You know what I think is actually impressive? When people who HATE running run anyway. People who lace up their shoes despite every cell in their body screaming at them to stop. THAT’S discipline. That’s superhuman, really.
Me? I’m just doing the thing I’d do anyway. It’s like praising someone for their discipline in eating ice cream.
So naturally, I decided to do something I actually hate.
I signed up for Hyrox.
For the uninitiated, Hyrox is a fitness competition that combines running with functional exercises. You push a sled that weights 3x my body weight, burpees, weighted carries, rowing, and other forms of self-inflicted suffering. It’s running mixed with all the gym stuff I’ve spent my entire life avoiding.
And I do mean my ENTIRE life.
Let me paint you a picture of me at a gym.
Anyone who knows me and has seen me “working out” at a gym knows the routine. I walk in. I walk around. I pick up a weight or two, examine it like an interesting artifact from a foreign civilization, then put it back down. I wander some more.
Then I make my way to the magazine rack, grab something to read, and head straight to the treadmill. It’s the only piece of equipment that makes sense to me. I run while reading about things that aren’t lifting weights.
This is my gym workout. Reconnaissance and cardio. I am essentially a very fit person who happens to be allergic to the entire concept of strength training.
My gym trauma runs deep. Middle school deep.
When I was in middle school, I walked into our school gym one day and was hit by the smell of 40-plus adolescent boys working out. The funk. The sweat. The teenage male musk of a room with questionable ventilation.
I literally got sick.
I had to ask the school nurse for a pass to skip gym class. While I may be cursed with bad eyesight, God did gift me an extraordinary nose. I was probably a scent hound in my previous life. Hence, the olfactory assault of pubescent boys exercising was more than my system could handle.
I’ve come a long way since then. Now I can tolerate gym smells for almost ten whole minutes before fleeing to the treadmill with my magazine.
Here’s the thing though. Hyrox might actually be perfect for someone like me.
Think about it. I’m slowly going blind. My left eye has already tapped out, and my right eye is on borrowed time. Running through crowded marathons means I can’t see the runners about to knock me down, the cracks in the road waiting to trip me, or the general chaos of 60,000 people moving in vaguely the same direction.
But Hyrox? There are LANES. Beautiful, structured lanes. There are spotters whose entire job is to make sure I don’t kill myself. Everything happens in a controlled environment where someone is literally watching to ensure I don’t faceplant into a sled.
For a guy who follows the lines on the road when his vision goes grey, a sport with actual designated lanes feels almost luxurious. It’s like they designed a fitness competition specifically for people who can’t see well and need adult supervision.
Maybe I’ve been doing endurance sports the hard way this whole time.
But here I am, having signed up for an official Hyrox competition. December 3rd. Anaheim, California.
That gives me enough time to either properly train for this thing or, more likely, slowly talk myself out of it through a series of increasingly creative excuses. I’m already workshopping them: “My autoimmune disease flared up.” “I have a work conflict.” “Mercury is in retrograde and my chakras aren’t aligned for sled pushes.”
The countdown has begun. The clock is ticking toward December 3rd, when I’ll either prove I can do hard things I hate, or confirm what I’ve always suspected: that I’m a one-trick pony whose only athletic gift is moving forward in a straight line for long periods of time.
Oh, and one more thing.
If I do this—IF—I’m doing it shirtless.
Because if I’m going to suffer through sled pushes and burpees and whatever fresh hell Hyrox has designed, if I’m going to voluntarily enter a gym-adjacent competition after a lifetime of magazine-rack workouts, then I’m going to do it as the runner guy.
Shirt optional. Dignity optional.
Commitment to being exactly who I am?
Non-negotiable.
December 3rd. Anaheim. The runner guy attempts to lift things.
Pray for me.
Follow my reluctant journey into the world of functional fitness here on Substack. Updates will include detailed documentation of me learning what a “sled push” is and questioning all my life choices. Shirtless.