My Last PT Test

So, there I was…

Shaw Air Force Base gym. It was Tuesday, July 26th, and I was about to take the final PT test of my career.

(BTW … PT = Physical Training.)

As I close in on retirement, I’ve noticed a tendency to marker all those final moments. Last weapons qualification. Last PT test. Last cyber awareness training (very happy about that one, Tina). Everything is a milestone now…

There are normally 6-20 people being tested, so I was surprised when only one other guy showed up. There were three test administrators for the two of us.

“Just thought you guys should know this is my last PT test,” I told them all.

The other guy testing (who, by the way, had a bandage on his HEAD) turned to me and said, “Hey, me too!”

“Whoa! Retiring?”

“Yeah!”

“What date?” I asked. And, whaddaya know, same date as me. Throw in another “whoa” and an “Awesome!” between us.

Just a couple of dudes about to retire, that’s right, that’s right. He slapped his net jersey on with #1 across it, and I put on my little flimsy net jersey with old #2 (go figure, my lucky number). Oh, yeah, ready for anything…

#1 went in and got his waist measured, then I did the same.

That part may sound weird. It’s true, the other services don’t have a waist measurement. Meh. Don’t hate. We are the Air Force, after all. Some smart people somewhere decided that bigger waists indicate a higher chance of health problems or something. I just do as told.

Then we went into a little room and we knocked out our push-ups. Boom. Done. Except, hold on a second … what is this?

I look over and head-bandage guy is leaving! He laughs and says he’s got a profile and doesn’t have to test on sit-ups or do the run. This is probably good since he has recently had some sort of head trauma.

Except that I am suddenly and strangely alone. There are the three testers who continue to politely put up with my bad jokes, but really, it’s just me now.

I knock out my sit-ups, the one component that I have aced at every PT test. The testers say something encouraging, of course, good cheerleaders for the cause. Can you imagine if they said discouraging things? I would find that hysterical, though I suspect I am in the minority on that, but anyway … next up: the 1.5-mile run.

We walk out to the track and I feel oddly introspective about things. A little nostalgia, perhaps, but also a little loneliness. I’m usually testing with a group of people, so it just felt bizarre. Not to mention that my big secret for doing well on the run is just to pick someone faster than me and try to keep up.

I broke my heel in March 2015 and have been about 90 seconds slower since then (and twenty pounds heavier), but I was feeling fine. Just six laps between me and the prize…

Lap one. Yikes. Way too fast at 1:30. If I keep that up, I’d finish in nine minutes … a solid 75 seconds faster than my PB from several years before. I slow down a little, but I’m feeling like an engine that’s had something come loose, and my pacing is off.

Lap two: 3:15. Still too fast. Breathing is coming pretty ragged.

For perhaps the first time since we started this current testing model I wonder if I’m going to have to stop. The shame would be like dropping out of a formation, right? Not to mention an administrative pain in the backside.

I continue to notch down. Third lap is something like 5:20. My heart rate is leveling off a little, but I’m still feeling like someone gave me a judy chop.

Lap four comes along at the same time as an F-16, and despite their best efforts, I cannot hear the lap time the testers shout at me. The roar of the afterburner is too much. Normally I like that sound. Freedom. ‘Murica. Heck, yeah. That day, however, I am only mildly amused that I cannot hear people screaming from five feet away.

As I finish lap five, I can’t believe that I am still considering walking. Instead, I man up (sort of) and take things down to an old man style shuffle for the last lap. But I keep running, no stopping.

Final time: 12:01. My next to worst time ever, but hey, I am solidly middle-aged now and I seriously enjoy ice cream. And cake. I stand before you, 194 pounds of twisted steel. The steel is located beneath the flab, but it’s there … trust me.

I laughed to myself yesterday as I cooled down. I was thinking about the debate that had raged in my mind during the entire run. I want to walk. Don’t walk. Walk. Don’t walk.

One of the two testers had said, “You made it look easy,” and I laughed some more. I suspect that she’s just being a shiny, happy person. That, or my sunglasses masked my strife, but I’m doubtful they had the power to do that.

Twenty-two years in the AF, and still ruggedly handsome!

On a tangential note, did you know the Air Force didn’t always have a fitness test? True story. We rode a stationary bicycle to measure V02 Max (or something like that) my first seven years in the service. Most weather units had zero fitness requirements, and three of my four units back then did not allow exercise on “work time.” The Air Force mothership has made very real progress incorporating fitness into its culture.

But this isn’t a recruiting commercial. It’s just me, talking about my last fitness test. Some of you out there are taking your first, and that is really cool. I wish you speed and success, on your PT test, and in your career.

Bart