Training II

Ran through a CFT and the rollover trainer today and I am a beat puppy. (A CFT is a Combat Fitness Test: a half mile run in boots and cammies [you'll notice I said 'run' and not 'comfortable jog'], lifting a 30 pound ammo can over your head as many times as possible, and a crazy 'maneuver under fire' course.) I got through the run with ten seconds to spare. (Hey, if the minimum wasn't good enough it wouldn't be the minimum.) Then we went to the ammo can lift. I'm thinking that 30-35 lifts would be good enough to score well and still not pull a muscle and screw up the next event. So I'm counting the lifts for this willowy female Lance Corporal and she pumps out 60. Oy. Then she counts for me. I quickly change my plans and do a face saving 63 lifts. The next event is fun but exhausting. Here at the DPC they use a permanent CFT course with lanes already marked out. Of course, that means that the grass has been worn away and we're crawling in mud. But you sprint, low crawl, high crawl, zigzag through cones, grab a wounded buddy and drag him back through some zigzags, transfer him up to a fireman's carry, drop him back at the start line, pick up two ammo cans, run (or walk in my case) back down the course, throw a dummy grenade, do some push ups, then pick up the ammo cans again and run (or walk quickly in my case) back to the start line. Like I said, crazy. And to make it even more fun I had to carry a bigger guy than me. But at my age I get about 6 minute to pass with the barest minimum points. I did it in 3:30. So that was successful.

Then there's the rollover trainer. Hmmm... I have to take back my Disneyland comment. First you buckle yourself in to the seats of the interior mock up HMMWV. This thing rests in a gimbal that spins it around at a decent but unhurried pace. They spin you two or three times and you end up hanging upside down in your seat belt or scrunched up against the door or something. Let me tell you, this is a very disorienting position no matter how Joe Cool you thought you were before. The light's at a different angle, the shapes of ordinary things are not like your brain thinks they should be, blood is rushing to your head, and you're probably carrying your full body weight on the top of your helmet. Oh, and you have a rifle to maintain control of. You find the latches of your seat belt, which never seemed to be where they were supposed to be, and unbuckle while unsuccessfully trying to prevent yourself from becoming a completely discombobulated lump of humanity on the roof of the vehicle. Then you have to manhandle yourself into a logical position, keep in mind that there are three other people trying to do the same thing, and figure out which door can open. Then you unglamorously haul yourself out and set up security positions. Repeat seven or eight times.

Tomorrow: Pistol Range. Even if it rains that should be an easy day.