I sprinted up the hill like a lion was chasing me.


Then I stopped at the top, walked back to the bottom, and did it again.

Had a lion been chasing me, I don’t think I would have gotten away. I have never been fast. The point of the exercise isn’t to be fast.

Hill sprints are a good combination of fat loss and strength gain, so I’ve read. Jason Ferruggia likes to talk about how Walter Payton relied on hill sprints for his training. If it’s good enough for one of the greatest running backs of all time, I can probably get some benefit from it.

The hardest part is finding a suitable hill. Fortunately, I live in Colorado, so I have one in my backyard.

And so, on St. Patrick’s Day, the one day each year when drinking is most socially acceptable, I ran hill sprints, and I slept.

It’s not that I’m so devoted to my fitness that I chose sprinting over boozing, or that I’m too much of an adult to drink green beer and chug Irish Carbombs. The truth is that I didn’t have anything better to do. If I knew who they were, I would have loved to join the people dressed in green I spotted on a balcony, partying it up.

Not that I haven’t had my share of St. Patrick’s Day shenanigans. Like some frat brother of my friend racking up a $1,000 bar tab before noon. Skipping all my classes to partake in a keg race. Showing up to adult hockey unable to skate. Calmly getting up, walking out to my friend’s balcony, and puking over the edge, with a current NHL player as a witness to the whole thing.

This year, through a lack of alternatives, I made a better decision.

But now I wonder if it isn’t better to let loose once in awhile.


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