I threw shot and discus in track. Minimal running, spend half the time in the weight room and the other half working on technique. Basically, screwing off for the period. I'm not fast, I'm not graceful, and God knows, if you ever see me running, you'd better get it in gear because there's some bad shit coming after me.
But on the way to the pits, I'd pass the hurdlers. Small, long-legged, sleek race cars. Human gazelles who made it look so effortless. Just run, run, run, jump, run, run, run, jump. Simple, right? So you can probably see where this is going. The pits were at the far end of the field and by the time practice was over, we'd be the last ones out. Jogging (more like moseying) past the hurdles, a couple of us got the bright idea to give it a go. I mean, it didn't look that hard and we were athletes, too, right? Amber and I started loping towards the first hurdle, slowly picking up speed, and just at the first jump with visions of grace and agility playing in my head, Amber tried to stop short, but momentum carried her into the hurdle where she folded over it in a headfirst dive into the cinders. I led with my left foot, just like I'd seen the others do, realizing in mid air that I was going to be short by two inches. My foot hit the hurdle, knocking it over but trapping my foot. The rest of my 5'8, 135 pound body continued to wrap around the frame as we tumbled down the cinder track for a good 10 feet. Laying there in a bruised and bleeding crumpled heap, I heard roars of laughter and looked over to see the coaches rolling in the stands. "Chumbley! That was the funniest damn thing I've seen all season! I should make you run laps for stupidity, but you've punished yourself enough. Hit the showers!"
That tumble down the track was a lesson in limits and humility. I'm not a hurdler. I will never be a hurdler. But I still hold the district and region records in shot put, so I've got that going for me.