Discipline — A tale of sweat and pain.

Abject pain.

That is just about what registered in my mind, forty-five minutes into training. From whatever I was able to make out over my ragged breath, we had about three minutes of water break before the next half of the class. I limped towards my bottle, a sharp spike in my knees and chest, blood rushing up my neck with a reverberating crash in my ear drums. And yet, at the same time, feeling afloat. I could not comprehend my actions, as memories of my past flashed through, like each step was not meant to be taken.

…” Sports is not for me, I will focus on studying. Don’t ask me to join”…

…” I am weak, I can not do this”…

…” Wait, I’ll get my bike, let’s go quicker”…

I gulped down half of my bottle in an instant, bringing me back to the present, the three-minute respite, and the sweaty shirt. The room is conditioned for a cool twenty Celsius, and the world outside is not above 15. But as I wiped off the brow, drops of sweat fell. The fruits of my labor, no doubt, unlike sweating under the sun aimlessly. With my friend, I shared a joke about quitting practice and running away. He concurred vigorously, although we both knew we had about thirty seconds to return to the class.

Small pleasures.

Between the start of the class, the break, and another break after an eternity, I somehow found the will to continue, groans and pains notwithstanding. Ninety minutes after the start, we did one final activity, and dismissed for the day, with a bow and the knowledge that we were better than ourselves from before.

And the aching body to prove it.