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When the first blister opened on my palm I knew shit was about to get real. But this time, thanks to my failures and forensics, I was ready. That doesn’t mean I was having any fun. I wasn’t. I was over it. I didn’t want to do pull-ups anymore, but achieving goals or overcoming obstacles doesn’t have to be fun.
After seventeen hours of pain, around 3 a.m. on January 20, 2013, I did my 4,020th and 4,021st pull-up, and the record was mine.
After logging more than 67,000 pull-ups in nine months, it was time to put them in my Cookie Jar and move on. Because life is one long motherfucking imaginary game that has no scoreboard, no referee, and isn’t over until we’re dead and buried.
