“Wake up, wake up, MPD! / We’ve been up
since a quarter to three! / If we had a lower IQ, / We’d be at police academy
just like you!”
994 was running
around a small paved circle that served as part of the DCFD driver’s training
course. It’s part of our morning PT running course, and it’s wonderfully
located right next to the common fence we share with the Metropolitan Police
Department Academy.
Friday was a
very PT-intensive day. All told, we probably ran about 4 miles around the
building, with Towers and basic exercises interspersed.
Step One: Two
laps around the compound.
Step Two:
Sit-ups, push-ups, stretching; maybe run the Tower once.
Step Three:
Repeat endlessly (as the instructor says, “When I get tired, you’ll stop
running! Until then, keep it up!)
The Tower is,
as I mentioned earlier, a five-story brick structure with a narrow metal
staircase going up one side. There are entrances into the structure (and thus
to the internal stairwell) on each floor. This allows for such wonderful drills
as “5-4-3-2-1s” in which you run to the fifth floor and all the way back down.
Without stopping, go to the fourth floor, duck in, and come down. Then to the
third… well, you get the idea.
That same
afternoon, there was a potluck lunch for the students. It was quite tasty; some
of the “family recipes” were questionable, but any meal in which deer-meat chili
is plated next to collard greens is a winner in my book.
Despite the
festive atmosphere, there was a looming sense of terror in all of the students.
All of the members of 994 were laid out in our chairs, arguing softly to
ourselves about whether we should succumb to the impending coma or try and fit
a few more chicken wings into us. The bigger problem that we chose to ignore
was what would happen after the meal.
We imagined
hearing “BOX!” come echoing down the hallway, and then running past snickering
instructors clutching forks and plates of food. We imagined them following us
out into the bay, watching as we groaned and forced our bloated selves into
now-too-tight bunker pants and coats.
Lastly, we
imagined running the Tower, probably with a 25-lb hose “rack” over our
shoulders (it’s about 50 feet of hose, folded over onto itself a couple of
times and duct-taped together; it’s a torture tool, nothing more).
I feel that now
would be a good time to mention that vomiting is not allowed in, on, around,
off of, or even near the Tower. You can’t even spit on the pavement! Any
infraction simply leads to more Towers.
The instructors
must have been in a good mood, because we just did our cleaning assignments and
went home. I can’t even imagine the chaos that would have ensued had we run the
Tower even once; did anyone ever see the scene in “Drop Dead Gorgeous” when all
the beauty pageant girls are throwing up everywhere? Methinks it would be
something like that, complete with “O Fortuna” playing in the background.
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