HoPW Backblast 11/19/20
11 strong braved the frosty breeze on the east side this morning and were numbered among the stars.
Q: @Prius
PAX: @Bob the Builder @BigDif @FEMA @the_soprano @Hound Dog @Spicoli @Daisy @Slush Fund @Hercules X 3 @Sherpa
Warmup all IC:
SSH x 20
Imperial Walkers x 10
Hillbillies x 10
Good Mornings x 10
Mountain Climbers x 10
Carolina Dry Dock x 10
Michael Phelps x 10
Parking lot movements:
Frankenstein’s
Butt Kickers
High Knees
Karaoke
Take a left at the end of the lot and mosey to Pink Floyd’s “the wall”
Right Leg Step Up x 10 IC
Left Leg Step Up x 10 IC
Dips x 10 IC
Erican x 10 SC
Crunchy Frogs x 10 IC
Right Leg Step Up x 15 IC
Left Leg Step Up x 15 IC
Dips x 15 IC
Erican x 15 SC
Crunchy Frogs x 15 IC
Mosey to the Field of Dreams
Lunges to the Poplar tree
Low Slow Squats x 10 IC
Burnie to the next light post
Low Slow Squats x 10 IC
Mosey to the ant hill
11’s – Jack Webb’s at the bottom and Monkey Humpers at the top (YHC did not specify at the start that the JW’s were progressive but they were meant to be)
Mosey to the track cut out
Flutter Kicks x 50 IC
Seal Jacks x 10 OC
Mosey back to the flag
COT:
2 Questions today: 1. Will you allow someone else to think for you today or will you do your own thinking? 2. What choices will you make today so that you will either experience the pain of discipline or the pain of regret?
“The Village Blacksmith” by H.W. Longfellow
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,–rejoicing,–sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.