Best Laid (Storm) Plans – 2021-03-16

AO: Terminus
QiC: Jumbo
Pax Count: 8
Pax List: Buttercup, Gates, Gronkins, Gump, Martina, Reggie, Smalls
FNG Count: 0
Downrange:

“The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men / Gang aft a-gley.”

So sayeth the proverb, and so learneth today’s Q.

8 PAX entered the gloom this AM at an alternative location due to anticipated storms. No lightning was struck, not even some rain. And some regular attendees stayed away. SAD

Warm up:

Mosey from Trader Joe’s to the original flag plant to find any regulars who missed our communication in Slack. No pax were found. SAD!

Body stretches, Chinook, Don Quixote, Weed Pickers

The Thang:

A long one but a good one that tests your mettle physically, mentally, and dare I say spirtually.

30 minute EMOM

  • 5 KBS
  • 10 Merkins
  • 15 Squats

Final 5 minutes was weighted squats. Finished with 2 minutes to spare on the clock for today’s beatdown.

CoT:

Reminders about what makes F3 unique and to encourage all PAX regardless of skillset. We enter the gloom TOGETHER.  Gates took us out.

Naked Man Moleskin:

Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
          Wi’ bickerin brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee
          Wi’ murd’ring pattle!
I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion
Has broken Nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion,
          Which makes thee startle,
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
          An’ fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave
          ’S a sma’ request:
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
          An’ never miss ’t!
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
          O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,
          Baith snell an’ keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary Winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
          Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
          Out thro’ thy cell.
That wee-bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
          But house or hald,
To thole the Winter’s sleety dribble,
          An’ cranreuch cauld!
But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men
          Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
          For promis’d joy!
Still, thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e’e,
          On prospects drear!
An’ forward tho’ I canna see,
          I guess an’ fear!